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♦ 


ECLECTIC ENGLISH CLASSICS 


THE 

VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 

AND 

THE DESERTED VILLAGE 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH 



NEW YORK ■ : • CINCINNATI • : • CHICAGO 
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 


U8RARY Of CONGRESS 

Two Conlos Received 

AU6 so 1906 



Copyright, 1895 and 1906, by 
American Book Company. 


VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


INTRODUCTION. 


O LIVER GOLDSMITH was bom of English stock, in Pallas, 
County Longford, Ireland, on the 25th of November, 1728. 
His father, the Rev. Charles Goldsmith, was, at the time of Oli- 
ver’s birth, “passing rich on forty pounds a year” in the poor 
village which formed his parish. Two years afterwards, however, 
he succeeded to a more lucrative living in the county of West 
*Meath. He was distinguished rather for kindliness and tender 
generosity towards others than for the prudence that looks out 
for self. “ Neither his practice nor his precepts were those which 
make rich men,” wrote Oliver later of another, doubtless with 
his father in mind ; for he showed his children “ the art of giv- 
ing away thousands before they were taught the more necessary 
qualification of getting a farthing.” 

Oliver’s mother, Ann J ones, was also of a clerical family, which 
had migrated to Ireland. The son who was to bring the family 
fame was fifth of a family of eight children. 

“ Never was so dull a boy,” said Elizabeth Delap, a relative 
who taught the child his letters. From Paddy Byrne’s school, 
to which he went when he was six years old, his report is little 
different, — “a stupid, heavy blockhead.” But here was one good 
fortune ; Byrne was a character. He had been a soldier, and he 
liked to talk of his wanderings. Besides this he had a host of Irish 


6 


INTRODUCTION. 


tales of banshees and fairies and ghosts and old chiefs ; and also 
a love for versifying. Perhaps by this very instructor Goldsmith’s 
imagination was awakened, and from him he caught his love of 
poesy as well as of wandering adventure. At any rate, from this 
time Oliver had the grace of rhyme, and such love of English 
poetry that he even attempted verses of his own, which helped his 
mother to hope for her boy against the hostile verdict of others. 

Then there was the music of a blind harper — for Irish min- 
strels were not yet wholly passed away — to awaken his love of 
music, and singing Peggy Golden, his father’s dairymaid. “ If 
I go to the opera where Signora Columba pours out mazes of 
melody,” he wrote, years after, when struggling for recognition in 
London, I sit and sigh for Lissoy’s fireside, and ‘Johnny Arm- 
strong’s Last Good Night’ from Peggy Golden.” 

From Byrne’s care Oliver passed to other schools, — to Elphin- 
stone, to Athlone, and to that at Edgeworthstown. In each he 
left nearly the same character, — active and athletic in all exer- 
cises among his playmates, but heavy, dull, and obtuse. It seems 
that the Edgeworthstown master alone was able to penetrate the 
overlying stupidity, and see the delicate, painfully sensitive nature 
hiding itself beneath an outward stolidity. So early was Oliver 
aware of what he termed, years after, “ an exquisite sensibility of 
contempt.” 

About his fifteenth year, when journeying either to or from 
school, he had an adventure which, towards the end of his life, 
served him well in his comedy “ She Stoops to Conquer.” Proud 
of the possession of a golden guinea, and feeling the exultation 
produced by a long ride and unwonted liberty, he hailed a man 
of the place through which he was passing, and asked the way 
to the “best house.” The stranger chanced to be a wag, and 


INTRODUCTION. 7 

he directed the boy to the house of the squire. Thither Oliver 
hastened. On the strength of the solitary guinea he put up his 
horse and ordered supper. Moreover, he invited the landlord 
and his wife and daughter to join him in the supper room. The 
squire, who knew Oliver’s father, caught the spirit of the joke, 
and evidently enjoyed the youthful swagger, for it was not till 
the next morning, when the lad called for his reckoning, that he 
found he had been entertained at a private house. His bold- 
ness disappeared in embarrassment, and confidence gave way to 
diffidence. 

Perhaps it was well that he could keep his guinea whole, for 
he was shortly to become a sizar in Trinity College, Dublin. A 
sizar was a student who wore a stuff gown and red cap, and did 
the work of a menial in return for instruction and board. How 
the spirit of the sensitive youth must have recoiled at the thought 
of such humiliation ! But his Uncle Contarine had been a sizar, 
and was he the worse for it ? His uncle’s judgment and good 
will were of value. Again and again he interfered in Oliver’s 
checkered youth, not unlike the godmother who intervenes in 
behalf of ill-fated favorites in sweet old fairy tales. Uncle Con- 
tarine said Oliver should go. In a list of June, 1745, from Trin- 
ity College, his name is the last of six sizars. 

Among those then in college was Edmund Burke; but in 
after years, when they sat round the same club table in London, 
Burke could hardly recall Goldsmith’s student figure. From his 
class room we have no echo of his real merit. He was probably 
too thriftless and miserable and dependent to excel. Poverty 
oppressed him, and also an able-bodied brute named Wilder, who 
served as tutor, and on one occasion, if not oftener, collared and 
thrashed his pupil. 


8 


INTROD UCTION, 


He found relief from such companionship in the joy of writing 
ballads and selling them to a certain bookshop for five shillings 
apiece ; and in stealing from his garret by night, to listen, on the 
skirts of the crowd, to his own verses from the lips of the wan- 
dering street singer. These ballads are unfortunately lost ; but one 
writing of that day still remains. Goldsmith scrawled his signa- 
ture once on a pane of his garret. At the dismantling of the house, 
sixty years ago, this treasure was removed to the manuscript col- 
lection gf the college. He took his degree in 1 747. His father had 
died during his college course. 

The foreshadowing of Goldsmith’s career begins now to be 
more plainly seen. He was a happy-go-lucky creature, ever ready 
for an idle hour and game and song ; morbidly sensitive concern- 
ing his ugly face and uncouth figure ; working by fits and starts — 
“ no turnspit dog ever gets up to his wheel with more reluctance 
than I sit down to write tender towards every living thing, and 
most of all towards the miserable of men ; spending before he had 
earned, and giving money to chance beggars when owing his 
landlady and tailor. 

For two years after he left college he led a vagabond life 
among his relatives. He tried for the ministry, but the bishop 
refused to ordain him, one reason given being that Oliver ap- 
peared before his Grace in flaming red breeches. He became a 
tutor. He started for America; but the ship sailed while he was 
making merry, and he returned to his poor mother, having in- 
vested all that was left of his patrimony in a bony roadster, which 
he had dubbed Fiddleback. *"And now, my dear mother,” he 
cried, after having struggled so hard to come back to you, I 
wonder you are not more rejoiced to see me ! ” 

The good woman was in despair. But the fairy godmother. 


INTRODUCTION, 9 

in the shape of Uncle Contarine, intervened. He provided the 
scapegoat with fifty pounds, and started him off to London to 
study law. The instructions of the fairy were not minded. On 
the road Oliver fell into bad company, and soon was back again, 
this time in genuine humiliation and disgrace. 

Once more he was forgiven and once more sent off, Edinburgh 
being his destination this time. It had been declared that he 
“ would make an excellent medical man.” His suffering relatives 
were now to be free of him, — free of him forever, for he never 
returned to Ireland. In his loving heart he always carried 
memories of the Lissoy fireside, and in home letters referred with 
warmth to the time when he should visit it. But before that was 
possible his mother and Uncle Contarine had passed away, and 
his longing died with them. 

At Edinburgh, in 1753, Goldsmith became a member of the 
Medical Society, and also, in keeping with his lifelong character, 
a leader of the young Irish students in fun and frolic. A year 
later he was moved to sail for Leyden, where he had ten months 
of teaching his native tongue, and other ways of support which 
were not so reputable, before he set out on his Continental tour. 

He would often, said a London associate of after days, speak 
“ with pleasantry of his distresses on the Continent, such as living 
on the hospitalities of the friars in convents, sleeping in bams, 
and picking up a kind of mendicant livelihood by the German 
flute.” The best story of his life at this time is the last part of 
Chapter XX. of “ The Vicar of Wakefield.” For George Prim- 
rose you have merely to put the name of Oliver Goldsmith. It 
is probably poor “ Goldy’s ” experience, even in the tutorship of 
the conceited pupil who “understood the art of guiding in money 
concerns ” much better than he. 


lO 


INTRODUCTION, 


In February, 1756, he entered London, and here began the 
experiences which George Primrose relates in the first part of 
Chapter XX. Goldsmith, too, was usher in an academy, and he, 
too, wrote for bread, consuming “ that time in efforts after excel- 
lence which takes up but little room, when it should have been 
more advantageously employed in the diffusive productions of 
fruitful mediocrity.” ^‘The public were more importantly em- 
ployed than to observe the easy simplicity of his style, or the 
harmony of his periods.” 

He attempted to practice medicine. He did all sorts of 
anonymous hack work for publishers, living the while in garrets, 
and in so great poverty and human-heartedness that he pawned 
his clothes to help his distressed landlady. Still, with what he 
termed “ a knack at hoping,” he wrote to a friend : 

“ There will come a day, no doubt it will — I beg you may live 
a couple of hundred years longer only to see the day — when the 
Scaligers and Daciers will vindicate my character, give learned 
editions of my labors, and bless the times with copious comments 
on the text. You shall see how they will fish up the heavy scoun- 
drels who disregard me now or will then offer to cavil at my pro- 
ductions. How will they bewail the times that suffered so much 
genius to be neglected ! ” And at another time he wrote to his 
brother : It gives me some pain to think I am almost beginning 
the world at the age of thirty-one. . . . Imagine to yoLu*self a 
pale, melancholy visage, with two great wrinkles between the eye- 
brows, with an eye disgustingly severe, and a big wig, and you 
may have a perfect picture of my present appearance. ... I 
have contracted an hesitating, disagreeable manner of speaking, 
and a visage that looks ill nature itself.” 

But the spring of 1759 brought Goldsmith better fortune. In 


INTRODUCTION. 


II 


April of that year was published his first considerable work, An 
Inquiry into the Present State of Polite Learning in Europe.” 
Engagements on periodicals followed, and among his essays are 
found papers which he contributed to the '^Bee,” the “Busy- 
body,” and the “ Critical Review.” His contributions to the 
“ Public Ledger ” gave greatest delight. The writing came about 
in this way. He had been engaged by Publisher Newbery to write 
twice a week at the rate of a guinea per article. In an intro- 
ductory paper he brought a Chinese visitor to London. In a 
second, the philosophic mandarin gave his impressions of the 
town. Thus began the famous work known as “ The Citizen of 
the World,” a series of letters supposed to be written by a China- 
man living according to English habits, and detailing his obser- 
vations and experiences to friends in China, who also sent letters 
to him. The series is a spirited and gentle satire on the English 
people and institutions, relieved here and there by such character 
sketches as Beau Tibbs, the Man in Black, and the Pawnbroker’s 
Widow, and also by the thin vein of a love story running to the 
end. 

.Goldsmith could now remove to better lodgings, and ask his 
friends — even the great Dr. Johnson — to supper. “One of the 
company (Mr. Percy, afterwards bishop), being intimate with our 
great lexicographer, was desired to call upon him and take him 
with him. As they went together, the former was much struck 
with the studied neatness of Johnson’s dress. He had on a new 
suit of clothes, a new wig nicely powdered, and everything about 
him was so perfectly dissimilar from his usual habits and appear- 
ance that his companion could not help inquiring the cause of this 
singular transformation. ^Why, sir,’ said Johnson, ^I hear that 
Goldsmith, who is a very great sloven, justifies his disregard of 


12 


INTRODUCTION. 


cleanliness and decency by quoting my practice, and I am desir- 
ous this night to show him a better example.’ ” 

In the wit and mirth of that evening began the friendship that 
was to throw a mellow light over the best literature of the second 
half of the eighteenth century. It is made up of the persistent 
sweetness and humor of Goldsmith, the aggressive dogmatism 
and unbending integrity of Johnson, and the loyalty of each when 
one was tried by the faults of the other. 

Apprenticeship to Newbery continued after Goldsmith had 
finished the Chinese papers. It is claimed that he worked on 
children’s books, and produced the graceful story of “ Goody 
Two Shoes.” We know that at this period he wrote the “ Life 
of Beau Nash,” ‘'The History of England in a Series of Letters 
from a Nobleman to his Son,” and other histories, compilations, 
and prefaces. Newbery endeavored to regulate the improvident 
author’s life, and to keep him in better surroundings by paying 
his landlady every quarter, and deducting the amount from Gold- 
smith’s earnings. Espionage such as that must have been hard 
for both, but it was doubtless money in the pocket of the pub- 
lisher — and of his hack. Goldsmith had, with his remaining 
guineas, the pleasure of buying breeches such as those he wore 
before the bishop in youthful days when he wished to take orders, 
and also coats to match. His love of gay apparel brought him 
into the bondage of debt to his tailor. 

He also went in gay company. There was the serene Joshua 
Reynolds, living in his hospitable house in Leicester Square, and 
winning fame and wealth at once by his cunning brush ; there was 
Johnson, whom they all deferred to and worshiped; there was 
Smollett, his novels — all but “Humphrey Clinker” — written; 
and Burke, rising into fame ; and Garrick, big with the applause of 


INTROD UCTION. 


13 


his audiences. There were also lesser lights, such as Dodsley and 
Hawkins and Beauchamp and Langton and Churchill and Lloyd. 
Coming to the edge of this group, too, was the thin Laird of 
Auchinleck, who was to report their fame and preserve their per- 
sonalities in the most wonderful memoir ever written in English. 
Around Reynolds’s table many of them met, or at the Mitre 
Tavern, Wisest men,” wrote Goldsmith to his brother, “ often 
have friends with whom they do not care how much they play the 



Moreover, from all this love and fashion of sociability and kind- 
liness there came, in 1763, the famous Literary Club, members of 
which met one night every week for supper and talk. We hear 
also of Davies’s bookshop, the proprietor an ex-actor and wit, who 
made it a favorite lounging place for poets, playwrights, and lit- 
erary gossips. 

It is at this period that we have our first glimpse of **The 
Vicar of Wakefield.” “ I received, one morning,” said Johnson, 
“a message from poor Goldsmith that he was in great distress, 
and as it was not in his power to come to me, begging that I 
would come to him as soon as possible. I sent him a guinea, 
and promised to come to him directly. I accordingly went as 
soon as I was dressed, and found that his landlady had arrested 
him for his rent, at which he was in a violent passion. I per- 
ceived that he had already changed my guinea, and had got a 
bottle of Madeira and a glass before him. I put the cork into 
the bottle, desired he would be calm, and began to talk to him 
of the means by which he might be extricated. He then told 
me that he had a novel ready for the press, which he produced 
to me. I looked into it and saw its merit, told the landlady I 
should soon return, and, having gone to a bookseller, sold it for 


14 


INTRODUCTION, 


sixty pounds. I brought Goldsmith the money, and he dis- 
charged his rent, not without rating his landlady in a high tone 
for having used him so ill.” 

The bookseller — a publisher — to whom Johnson refers, thrust 
the manuscript of the tale aside to await his convenience. He 
had doubts of its value, and it was three years and more before 
“ The Vicar of Wakefield ” brought its sweetness and joy to the 
world. It was published in 1766. 

Goldsmith sought Johnson’s advice again in regard to *^The 
Traveler.” The exquisite grace and finish of the poem appealed 
at once to the great critic. It was published in 1764. There 
has not been so fine a poem since Pope’s time,” Johnson re- 
marked, after its appearance. Sir Joshua suggested that the 
partiality of Goldsmith’s friends made the poem. Nay, sir,” 
answered the “ Cham,” including even himself in the condemna- 
tion; ^'the partiality of his friends was always against him; it 
was with difficulty we could give him a hearing.” Goldsmith 
was a man who, whatever he wrote, did it better than any other 
man could do. He deserved a place in Westminster Abbey ; and 
every year he lived he deserved it more.” 

His next work, the comedy of “The Good-natured Man,” 
made the author richer by five hundred pounds. With this, you 
may think, he paid off his debts and became free. Jar from it. 
He kept the old obligations, and made new ones by moving to 
commodious lodgings and furnishing them luxmiously. He kept 
the old beggars, and doubtless added new ones to those ever 
hanging on his skirts. 

The new comedy won its way by laughter and applause the 
first night. The actors had little hope of its good fortune. 
Goldsmith, although supported by Johnson, Burke, and others. 


INTROD UCTION, 1 5 

was in terror. It was club night, and after the piece they went 
to the club to sup. “ All the while,” said Goldsmith afterwards, 
“ I was suffering horrid tortures, and verily believe that if I had 
put a bit into my mouth it would have strangled me on the spot, 
I was so excessively ill; but I made more noise than usual to 
cover all that [it is said he sang his favorite song of “ The Old 
Woman Tossed in a Blanket Nineteen Times as High as the 
Moon ”], and so they never perceived my not eating, nor, I be- 
lieve, at all imagined to themselves the anguish of my heart. 
But when all were gone except Johnson here, I burst out a-cry- 
ing, and even swore that I would never write again.” 

Goldsmith must now undertake no end of compilation and 
hack work to meet his expenses. There was little chance for his 
genius to show its finest spirit. But from between his labored 
“Roman History” and “Animated Nature,” we have the melo- 
dious bird song of “ The Deserted Village,” 

“ Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn.” 

The poem overflows with tenderness and grace. Goldsmith’s 
heart, it is asserted, was again wandering to his youth. Eng- 
lish Auburn was in truth Irish Lissoy. Paddy Byrne lives in the 
village schoolmaster, and the poet’s own people in the rustics 
of the humble bowers. 

But Goldsmith was too careful and painstaking in his work to 
be very productive. He wrote “The Haunch of Venison” and 
“Mrs. Mary Blaize.” In 1771 he was at work on his master 
comedy; but it was not till March, 1773, that his friends dined 
with him on the first night of its appearance, to keep him in spirits. 
The “Cham” was in the chair. All were in mirth but poor 
“ Goldy.” His mouth, says Reynolds, was so parched “ from 


i6 


INTRODUCTION. 


the agitation of his mind that he was unable to swallow a single 
mouthful.” His friends went to the theater, but Goldsmith, to 
pace the park. He was found and brought to the playhouse to 
witness the last act of his triumphant “ She Stoops to Conquer ; 
or. The Mistakes of a Night.” 

The play was dedicated to Dr. Johnson in the felicitous word- 
ing that marks all Goldsmith’s dedications: *‘By inscribing this 
slight performance to you I do not mean so much to compliment 
you as myself. It may do me some honor to inform the public 
that I have lived many years in intimacy with you. It may serve 
the interests of mankind, also, to inform them that the greatest 
wit may be found in a character without impairing the most 
unaffected piety.” How could a dedication be better or simpler 
or sweeter ? 

Out of the mass of his forced writing but one more exquisite 
work was to come from Goldsmith’s pen. And this, the legend 
is, came about in the following way. One day in February, 1 7 74, 
a company who knew Goldsmith, amused themselves at St. James’s 
Coffeehouse by ridiculing his oddities and writing jocular epitaphs 
upon him. Garrick, the leader in the fun, began with the fol- 
lowing : 

Here lies Nolly Goldsmith, for shortness called Noll, 

Who wrote like an angel and talked like poor Poll.” 

Not many weeks after, but not until after Goldsmith’s death, ap- 
peared the gentle satire which he had named “ Retaliation : Includ- 
ing Epitaphs on the Most Distinguished Wits of the Metropolis.” 
For Garrick’s impromptu he returned: 

“ Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can ; 

An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man. 


INTRODUCTION. 


As an actor, confessed without rival to shine ; 

As a wit, if not first, in the very first line ; 

On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; 

’Twas only that when he was off he was acting.” 

In March a fever attacked Goldsmith. “ Your pulse,” said the 
physician, “ is in greater disorder than it should be from the state 
of your fever ; is your mind at ease ? ” “ It is not,” answered 

poor “ Goldy.” On the 4th of April he died. 

When Burke heard of his death he burst into tears, and Rey- 
nolds put aside painting for the day. Johnson wrote, weeks 
after : “ Of poor dear Dr. Goldsmith there is little to be told 
more than the papers have made public. He died of a fever, 
made, I am afraid, more violent by uneasiness of mind. His 
debts began to be heavy, and all his resources were exhausted. 
Sir Joshua is of opinion that he owed not less than two thousand 
pounds. Was ever poet so trusted before ! ” And again : He 
raised money and squandered it by every artifice of acquisition 
and folly of expense. But let not his frailties be remembered; 
he was a very great man.” 

His body was buried in the ground of Temple Church. Two 
years after, the Literary Club placed a monument to his memory 
in the Poets’ Comer of Westminster Abbey. Johnson wrote a 
Latin inscription, in spite of a protest from his friends that the 
memory of so eminent an English writer ought to be preserved 
in the language to which his works are likely to be so lasting an 
ornament.” A part of it, translated, reads : “ Of Oliver Gold- 
smith — a poet, naturalist, and historian, who left scarcely any 
style of writing untouched, and touched nothing that he did not 
adorn ; of all the passions, whether smiles were to be moved, or 


i8 


INTRODUCTION. 


tears, a powerful yet gentle master; in genius sublime, vivid, 
versatile ; in style elevated, clear, elegant — the love of com- 
panions, the fidelity of friends, and the veneration of readers 
have by this monument honored the memory.” 

“There are a hundred faults in this thing,” wrote Goldsmith 
in his advertisement, or preface, of “The Vicar of Wakefield.” 
He did not add that there were a thousand truths and beauties. 
TheTal^ has not lived because of the faults the author saw, but 
because of these truths and these beauties. Its fidelity to life, its 
simplicity, its purity, its unfailing sweetness, the genuine love to- 
wards all men to which it bears evidence, — these are what has 
kept it for us and those who shall come after us, and made it an 
English classic. But more than sweetness and tenderness and 
humanity, its persistent faith in the prevalence of right and the 
punishment of wrong, its hopefulness, its common sense, the 
genial humor which accompanies faith, tenderness, and human 
love, appeal to the heart of every reader from every page. 

The book is an idyl of domestic life. A quiet English home 
is the setting of the picture, but the human life of it belongs 
to the world. It might have been written in such a scene as 
the author describes: “A seat overshadowed by a hedge »»f 
hawthorn and honeysuckle. Here, when the weather was fint 
and our labor soon finished, we usually sat together, to enjoy an 
extensive landscape in the calm of the evening. Here, too, we 
drank tea, which was now become an occasional banquet ; and 
as we had it but seldom, it diffused a new joy, the preparations 
for it being made with no small share of bustle "and ceremony. 
On these occasions our two little ones always read for us.” And 
again, beside the fireside and the home brew : “ But let us have 


INTRODUCTION. 


19 


one bottle more, Deborah, my life ; and, Moses, give us a good 
song. What thanks do we not owe to Heaven for thus bestowing 
tranquillity, health, and competence ! I think myself happier 
now than the greatest monarch upon earth. He has no such 
fireside, no such pleasant faces about it.” 

The Goldsmith who drew this wonderful family group was the 
solitary writer, struggling to raise himself from the poverty of 
Green Arbor Court (those lodgings of his which were near Old 
Bailey and Seacoal Lane, and were approached by the steep 
stone stairs called “ Breakneck Steps ”), in the great London “where 
men,” he wrote, “club to raise each other’s reputation.” He 
was remote, unfriended, melancholy, and heartsick. Memories 
of Lissoy had wrought long in his mind, and his imagination was 
fusing and blending them for one great effort. And so out of 
this coldness and solitariness and poverty he made this tale, which 
is immortal. 

The quiet vicar, with his love of his own kind, his reverence 
for good and high-minded endeavor after right, his simple dig- 
nity, his little vanities, his ownership of wife and children and 
home and parish folk, is said to be drawn in broad lines from 
Goldsmith’s own father. Possibly the strong common sense in 
house management, the shrewd observation and practical energy 
of his more worldly spouse had also a prototype at the Lissoy 
chimney corner. We know from the story of the reappearance 
on Fiddleback that the strong common sense of his poor mother 
was recognized, as well as at times sorely tried, by her son. 

• “ The Vicar of Wakefield ” embodies also a philosophy which 
must have been the fruit of many years of reflection and observa- 
tion. It sets forth a rational scheme of government. It illustrates 
the final triumph of virtue over vice ; the rule of a moral law ; 


20 


INTRODUCTION. 


that lies and crimes are discovered and punished. It shows the 
triumph of faith in goodness and sweetness : “ Those relations 
which describe the tricks and vices only of mankind, by increas- 
ing our suspicion in life, retard our success.” “ The knowing one 
is the silliest fellow under the sun.” 

By its careful delineation of the horrors of prison life, and the 
religious exaltation of the vicar’s speech, the tale strenuously 
advocated prison reform, and the gentler penal code which has 
in part been accomplished since Goldsmith wrote. This very 
picturing of prison iniquity and moral hideousness serves to make 
such scenes as those that precede and follow it more beautiful : 
“ In the morning early I called out my whole family to help at 
saving aih aftergrowth of hay ; and our guest offering his assist- 
ance, he was accepted among the number. Our labors went on 
lightly ; we turned the swath to the wind. I went foremost, and 
the rest followed in due succession.” 

The story is ever new, ever fresh, ever true and beautiful ; of a 
simple, honest heart confiding in the goodness of the world, and 
strong in human love and faithfulness. None but Goldsmith 
could have written it. “Think of him reckless, thriftless, vain, 
if you like,” says Thackeray, “ but merciful, gentle, generous, full 
of love and pity. He passes out of our life and goes to render 
his account beyond it. Think of the poor pensioners weeping at 
his grave ; think of the noble spirits that admired and deplored 
him; think of the righteous pen that wrote his epitaph; and of 
the wonderful and unanimous response of affection with which 
the world has paid back the love he gave it. His humor delight- 
ing us still ; his song fresh and beautiful as when he first charmed 
us with it ; his words in all our mouths ; his very weaknesses beloved 
and familiar, — his benevolent spirit seems to smile upon us; to 


INTROD UCTION, 


21 


do gentle kindnesses; to succor with sweet charity; to soothe, 
caress, and forgive ; to plead with the fortunate for the unhappy 
and the poor.” 

“We read * The Vicar of Wakefield ’ in youth and age,” wrote 
Sir Walter Scott, “return to it again and again, and bless the 
memory of an author who contrives so well to reconcile us to 
human nature. Whether we choose the pathetic and distressing 
incidents of the fire, the scenes of the jail, or the lighter and 
humorous parts of the story, we find the best and truest senti- 
ments enforced in the most beautiful language ; and perhaps few 
characters of purer dignity have been described than that of the 
excellent pastor, rising above sorrow and oppression, and labor- 
ing for the conversion of those felons into whose conjpany he 
had been thrust by his villainous creditor.” 

“ Within these few days,” wrote the great Goethe towards the 
end of his life, “ ' The Vicar of Wakefield ’ fell accidentally into 
my hands ; I could not help reading the little book again from 
beginning to end, not a little affected by the lively recollection of 
bow much I had been indebted to the author seventy years ago. 
It is not to be described, — the effect which Goldsmith had upon 
me just at the decisive moment of mental development. The 
lofty and benevolent irony, that fair and indulgent view of all 
oversights, that meekness under all calamities, that equanimity 
under all changes and chances, and all that train of kindred vir- 
tues, whatever name they bear, formed my best education ; and 
in the end these are the thoughts and feelings which have re- 
claimed us from all the errors of life.” 

The tale has been translated into many languages. It is often 
the first English story of length put in the hands of boys at the 
French lycees. 


22 


INTRODUCTION. 


^^The Deserted Village” was published in 1770. It is a pic- 
ture of two strikingly contrasted scenes : a village blessed with 
modest comfort and the cheerful activity of rural work and play ; 
and the same village depopulated to make room for the spreading 
estate of some wealthy landowner, while the former inhabitants 
are forced to seek a new home across the ocean. Goldsmith 
mistakenly regards the change as due to the encroachments of 
commerce : 

“ Trade’s unfeeling train 
Usurp the land and dispossess the swain.” 

While the poet was right in thinking agriculture a blessing, he 
was wrong in thinking commerce a curse. Nevertheless, his 
vigorous arraignment of luxury as the foe of true prosperity 
should strike a responsive chord in oujl day. 

Was Goldsmith writing of an English village, or of the Irish 
Lissoy of his childhood ? Macaulay criticises the poet for writing 
of both. The poem, he says, ‘Gs made up of two incongruous 
parts. The village in its happy days is a true English village. 
The village in its decay is an Irish village.” It may be that the 
rural scenes of England colored the poet’s recollections of his 
childhood home in Ireland. Beyond question, memories of that 
home were in Goldsmith’s mind as he described Sweet Auburn ” 
and its people. Nevertheless, the identity of the “ deserted vil- 
lage ” must remain uncertain. Far more important than the 
geography of the poem, however, are its beauty and tenderness. 

The poem is based in part on Goldsmith’s belief that England 
and Ireland were becoming depopulated ; an idea which history 
proves false. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE DESCRIPTION OF THE FAMILY OF WAKEFIELD, IN WHICH A KINDRED 
LIKENESS PREVAILS, AS WELL OF MINDS AS OF PERSONS. 

I WAS ever of opinion that the honest man who married and 
brought up a large family did more service than he who con- 
tinued single and only talked of population. From this motive, 
I had scarce taken orders ^ a year before I began to think seri- 
ously of matrimony, and chose my wife, as she did her wedding 
gown, not for a fine, glossy surface, but for such qualities as 
would wear well. To do her justice, she was a good-natured, 
notable woman; and as for breeding, there were feV country 
ladies who could show more. She could read any English book 
without much spelling ; but for pickling, preserving, and cookery, 
none could excel her. She prided herself also upon being an ex- 
cellent contriver in housekeeping, though 'l could never find that 
we grew richer with all her contrivances. 

However, we love^ each other tenderly, and our fondness in- 
creased as we grew old. There was, in fact, nothing that could 
make us angry with the world or each other. We had an elegant 
house, situated in a fine country and a good neighborhood. The 
year was spent in moral or rural amusements, in visiting our rich 


1 “Taken orders,” i.e., been ordained to the ministry. 
2 .^ 


24 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


neighbors, and relieving such as were poor. We had no revolu* 
tions to fear, nor fatigues to undergo ; all our adventures were 
by the fireside, and all our migrations from the blue bed to the 
brown. 

As we lived near the road, we often had the traveler or stranger 
visit us to taste our gooseberry wine, for which we had great repu- 
tation ; and I profess, with the veracity of an historian, that I never 
knew one of them find fault with it. Our cousins too, even to the 
fortieth remove, all remembered their affinity, without any help 
from the Herald’s Office,^ and came very frequently to see us. 
Some of them did us no great honor by these claims of kindred, 
as we had the blind, the maimed, and the halt amongst the number. 
However, my wife always insisted that as they were the same flesh 
and blood, they should sit with us at the same table ; so that if 
we had not very rich, we generally had very happy, friends about 
us, — for this remark will hold good through life, that the poorer 
the guest, the better pleased he ever is with being treated, — and 
as some men gaze with admiration at the colors of a tulip or the 
wings of a butterfly, so I was by nature an admirer- of happy 
human faces. However, when any one of our relations wa? 
found to be a person of very bad character, a troublesome guest, 
or one we desired to get rid of, upon his leaving my house I ever 
took care to lend him a riding coat, or a pair of boots, or some- 
times a horse of small value, and I always had the satisfaction of 
finding he never came back to return them. By this the house 
was cleared of such as y^^e did not like ; but never was the family 
of Wakefield known to turn the traveler or the poor dependent 
out of doors. 

Thus we lived several years in a state of much happiness. Not 
but that we sometimes had those little rubs which Providence 
sends to enhance the value of its favors ; my orchard was often 
robbed by schoolboys, and my wife’s custards plundered by the 

1 The chief business of the Herald’s Office or College (a corporation insti- _ 
tuted in England in the fifteenth century) is to grant coats of arms, and 
to trace the histories and preserve the descent of families. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


25 


cats or the children ; the Squire ^ would sometimes fall asleep 
in the most pathetic parts of my sermon, or his lady return my 
wife’s civilities at church with a mutilated courtesy ; but we soon 
got over the uneasiness caused by such accidents, and usually in 
three or four days began to wonder how they vexed us. 

My children, the offspring of temperance, as they were edu- 
cated without softness, so they were at once well formed and 
healthy ; my sons hardy and active, my daughters beautiful and 
blooming. When I stood in the midst of the little circle which 
promised to be the support of my declining age, I could not avoid 
repeating the famous story of Count Abensberg,^ who, in Henry 
II.’s progress through Germany, while other courtiers came with 
their treasures, brought his thirty-two children, and presented 
them to his sovereign as the most valuable offering he had to be- 
stow. In this manner, though I had but six, I considered them 
as a very valuable present made to my country, and consequently 
looked upon it as my debtbr. Our eldest son was named George, 
after his uncle, who left us ten thousand pounds. Our second 
child, a girl, I intended to call after her Aunt Grissel; but my 
wife, who had been reading romances, insisted*- upon her being 
called Olivia. In less than another year we had another daugh- 
ter, and now I was determined that Grissel should be her name ; 
but a rich relation taking a fancy to stand godmother, the girl 
was by her directions called Sophia ; so that we had two romantic 
names in the family ; but I solemnly protest I had no hand in it. 
Moses was our next, and after an interval of twelve years we had 
two sons more. 

1 A shortened form of “ Esquire,” a title given in England to younger sons 
of noblemen, to justices of the peace, to gentlemen who have held commis- 
sions in the army and navy, and usually to all professional and literary men. 

2 It is told in German books that when Henry II., who was crowned king 
in 1002 and emperor in 1014, invited Babo of Abensberg to a hunt, the count 
brought thirty-two grown sons, each attended by a trooper and servant, and, 
drawing them up before the king, gave them to his service. The royal master 
expressed his joy by taking the youths to his court, and holding them until he 
had found landed property and rights for each one. 


26 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


It would be fruitless to deny my exultation when I saw my 
little ones about me; but the vanity and the satisfaction of my 
wife were even greater than mine. When our visitors would say, 
'‘Well, upon my word, Mrs. Primrose, you have the finest chil- 
dren^n the whole country,” "Ay, neighbor,” she would answer, 
"they are as Heaven made them, handsome enough, if they be 
good enough ; for handsome is that handsome does.” And then 
she would bid the girls hold up their heads ; who, to conceal 
nothing, were certainly very handsome. Mere outside is so very 
trifling a circumstance with me that - I should scarcely have re- 
membered to mention it, had it not been a general topic of con- 
versation in the country. Olivia, now about eighteen, had that 
luxuriancy of beauty with which painters generally draw Hebe,i — 
open, sprightly, and commanding. Sophia’s features were not so 
striking at first, but often did more certain exe’cution ; for they 
were soft, modest, and alluring. The one vanquished by a single 
blow, the other by efforts successively repeaj;ed. 

The temper of a woman is generally formed from the turn of 
her features ; at least it was so with my daughters. Olivia wished 
for many loversyiSophia to secure one. Olivia was often affected^, 
from too great a desire to please. Sophia even repressed excel- 
lence, from her fears to offend. The one entertained me with 
her vivacity when I was gay, the other with her sense when I 
was serious. But these qualities were never carried to excess in 
either, and I have often seen them exchange characters for a 
whole day together. A suit of momning has transformed my 
coquette into a prude, and a new set of ribbons has given her 
younger sister more than natural vivacity. My eldest son 
George was bred at Oxford,^ as I intended him for one of the 
learned professions. My second boy Moses, whom I designed 
for business, received a sort of miscellaneous education at home. 
But it is needless to attempt describing the particular characters 

1 The goddess in Greek mythology who was cupbearer to the gods, and 
personified blooming freshness and youth. 

2 “ Bred at Oxford,” i.e., educated at Oxford University. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


27 


of young people that had seen but very little of the world. In 
short, a family likeness prevailed through all, and, properly 
speaking, they had but one character, — that of being all equally 
generous, credulous, simple, and inoffensive. 


CHAPTER II. 

FAMILY MISFORTUNES. THE LOSS OF FORTUNE ONLY SERVES TO IN- 
CREASE THE PRIDE OF THE WORTHY. 

T he temporal concerns of our family were chiefly committed 
to my wife’s management ; as to the spiritual, I took them 
entirely under my own direction. The profits of my living,^ 
which amounted to but thirty-five pounds a year, I made over to 
the orphans and widows of the clergy of our diocese ; for having 
sufficient fortune of my own, I was careless of temporalities, and 
felt a secret pleasure in doing my duty without reward. I also set 
a resolution of keeping no curate, and of being acquainted with 
every man in the parish, exhorting the married men to temper- 
ance and the bachelors to matrimony ; so that in a few years it 
was a common saying that there were three strange wants at 
Wakefield, — a parson wanting pride, young men wanting wives, ^ 
and alehouses wanting customers. 

Matrimony was always one of my favorite topics, and I wrote 
several sermons to prove its happiness ; but there was a peculiar 
tenet which I made a point of supporting ; for I maintained with 
Whiston 2 that it was unlawful for a priest of the Church of Eng- 
land, after the death of his first wife, to take a second; or, to 

1 Parish. 

2 William Whiston (1667-1752), who survives to us in his translation of 
Josephus, ar^ who is immortalized by Dr. Primrose’s admiration, was inclined 
to controvert in theology, and was also a mathematician of such eminence that 
he succeeded Sir Isaac Newton as professor of mathematics in Cambridge Uni- 
versity. 


28 


- OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


express it in one word, I valued myself upon being a strict 
monogamistd 

I was early initiated into this important dispute, on which so 
many laborious volumes have been written. I published some 
tracts upon the subject myself, which, as they never sold, I have 
the consolation of thinking are read only by the happy few. 
Some of my friends called this my weak side ; but alas ! they 
had not, like me, made it the subject of long contemplation. 
The more I reflected upon it the more important it appeared. 
I even went a step beyond Whiston in displaying my principles. 
As he had engraven upon his wife’s tomb that she was the only 
wife of William Whiston, so I wrote a similar epitaph for my wife, 
though still living, in which I extolled her prudence, economy, 
and obedience till death; and having got it^copied fair, with an 
elegant frame, it was placed over the chimney-piece,^ where it 
answered several very useful purposes; — it admonished my wife 
of her duty to me, and my fidelity to her ; it inspired her with a 
passion for fame, and constantly put her in mind of her end. 

It was thus, perhaps, from hearing marriage so often recom- 
mended that my eldest son, just upon leaving college, fixed his 
affections upon the daughter of a neighboring clergyman, who 
was a dignitary ^ in the Church, and in circumstances to give her 
a large fortune. But fortune was her smallest accomplishment. 
Miss Arabella Wilmot was allowed by all (except my two daugh- 
ters) to be completely pretty. Her youth, health, and innocence 
were still heightened by a complexion so transparent, and such 
a happy sensibility of look, as even age could not gaze on with 
indifference. As Mr. Wilmot knew that I could make a very 
handsome settlement^ on<^y son, he was not averse to the 
match ; so both families lived together in all that harmony which 
generally precedes an expected alliance. Being convinced by 

1 One who believes that a widower or widow should not marry again. 

2 Mantelpiece. ^ 

3 One who ranks higher than a priest. 

* Gift of property. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


29 


experience that the days of courtship are the most happy of our 
lives, I was willing enough to lengthen the period ; and the vari- 
ous amusements which the young couple every day shared in 
each other’s company seemed to increase their passion. 

W e were generally awakened in the morning by music, and on fine 
days rode a-hunting. The hours between breakfast and dinner 
the ladies devoted to dress and study ; they usually read a page, 
and gazed at themselves in the glass, which even philosophers 
might own often presented the page of greatest beauty. At 
dinner my wife took the lead; for as she always insisted upon 
carving everything herself, it being her mother’s way, she gave 
us upon these occasions the history of every dish. When we 
had dined, to prevent the ladies leaving us I generally ordered 
the table to be removed ; and sometimes, with the music master’s 
assistance, the girls would give us a very agreeable concert. 
Walking out, drinking tea, country dances, and forfeits shortened 
the rest of the day, without the assistance of cards, as I hated all 
manner of gaming, except backgammon, at which my old friend 
and I sometimes took a twopenny hit.^ Nor can I here pass 
over an ominous circumstance that happened the last time we 
played together : I only wanted to fling a quatre,^ and yet I threw 
deuce ace ^ five times running. 

Some months were elapsed in this manner, till at last it was 
thought convenient to fix a day for the nuptials of the young 
couple, who seemed earnestly to desire it. During the prepara- 
tions for the wedding I need not describe the busy importance 
of my wife, nor the sly looks of my daughters ; in fact, my atten- 
tion was fixed on another object, — the completing a tract which 
I intended shortly to publish in defense of my favorite principle. 
As I looked upon this as a masterpiece, both for argument and 
style, I could not, in the pride of my heart, avoid showing it to 
my old friend Mr. Wilmot, as I made no doubt of receiving his 
approbation ; but not till too late I discovered that he was most 

1 Chance. ^ Die with four spots. 

8 “ Deuce ace,” i.e., two and one. 


30 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 


violently attached to the contrary opinion, and with good reason ; 
for he was at that time actually courting a fourth wife. This, 
as may be expected, produced a dispute attended with some 
acrimony, which threatened to interrupt our intended alliance ; 
but on the day before that appointed for the ceremony we agreed 
to discuss the subject at large. ^ 

It was managed with proper spirit on both sides. He asserted 
that I was heterodox ; I retorted the charge ; he replied, and I 
rejoined. In the mean time,'Vhile the controversy was hottest, 
I was called out by one of my relations, who, with a face of 
concern, advised me to give up the dispute, at least till my son’s 
wedding was over. “How!” cried I, “relinquish the cause of 
truth, and let him be a husband, already driven to the very verge 
of absurdity ? You might as well advise me to give up my for- 
tune as my argument.” “ Your fortune,” returned my friend, “ I 
am now sorry to inform you, is almost nothing. The merchant 
in town 2 in whose hands your money was lodged has gone off, to 
avoid a statute of bankruptcy, and is thought not to have left a 
shilling in the pound. I was unwilling to shock you or the family 
with the account till after the wedding ; but now it may serve to 
moderate your warmth in the argument ; for, I suppose, your 
own prudence will enforce the necessity of dissembling, at least, 
till your son has the young lady’s fortune secure.” “Well,” re- 
turned I, “ if what you tell me be true, and if I am to be a beggar, 
it shall never make me a rascal, or induce me to disavow my prin- 
ciples. I’ll go this moment and inform the company of my cir- 
cumstances; and as for the argument, I even here retract my 
former concessions in the old gentleman’s favor, nor will I allow 
him now to be a husband in any sense of the expression.” 

It would be endless to describe the different sensations of both 
families when I divulged the news of our misfortune ; but what 
others felt was slight to what the lovers appeared to endure. 

1 “ At large,” i.e., fully. 

2 London. “To town ” and “ in town ” when used by English writers 
nearly always refer to the metropolis. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


31 


Mr. Wilmot, who seemed before sufficiently inclined to break off 
the match, was by this blow soon determined. One virtue he had 
in perfection, which was prudence, — too often the only one that 
is left us at seventy-two. 


CHAPTER III. 


A MIGRATION. THE FORTUNATE CIRCUMSTANCES OF OUR LIVES ARE 
GENERALLY FOUND AT LAST TO BE OF OUR OWN PROCURING. 



'HE only hope of our family now was that the report of our 


X misfortune might be malicious or premature ; but a letter 
from my agent in town soon came with a confirmation of every 
particular. The loss of fortune to myself alone would have been 
trifling ; the only uneasiness I felt was for my family, who were 
to be humble without an education to render them callous to 
contempt. 

Near a fortnight had passed before I attempted to restrain 
their affliction; for premature consolation is but the remem- 
brancer of sorrow. During this interval my thoughts were em- 
ployed on some future means of supporting them ; and at last a 
small cure ^ of fifteen pounds a year was offered me in a distant 
neighborhood, where I could still enjoy my principles without 
molestation. With this proposal I joyfully closed, having deter- 
mined to increase my salary by managing a little farm. 

Having taken this resolution, my next care was to get together 
the wrecks of my fortune, and, all debts collected and paid, out 
of fourteen thousand pounds we had but four hundred remaining. 
My chief attention, therefore, was now to bring down the pride 
of my family to their circumstances ; for I well knew that aspir- 
ing beggary is wretchedness itself. “You cannot be ignorant, 
my children,” cried I, “that no prudence of ours could have 


1 Spiritual charge of a church as priest or minister. 


32 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


prevented our late misfortune; but prudence may do much in 
disappointing its effects. We are now poor, my fondlings, and 
wisdom bids us conform to our humble situation. Let us, then, 
without repining, give up those splendors in which numbers are 
wretched, and seek in humbler circumstances that peace with 
which all may be happy. The poor live pleasantly without our 
help ; why, then, should we not learn to live without theirs ? 
No, my children, let us from this moment give up all preten- 
sions to gentility ; we have still enough left for happiness, if we 
are wise ; and let us draw upon content for the deficiencies of 
fortune.” 

As my eldest son was bred a scholar, I determined to send 
him to town, where his abilities might contribute to our support 
and his own. The separation of friends and families is, perhaps, 
one of the most distressful circumstances attendant on penury. 
The day soon arrived on which we were to disperse for the first 
time. My son, after taking leave of his mother and the rest, 
who mingled their tears with their kisses, came to ask a blessing 
from me. This I gave him from my heart, and which, added to 
five guineas, was all the patrimony I had now to bestow. “You 
are going, my boy,” cried I, “ to London on foot, in the manner 
Hooker,^ your great ancestor, traveled there before you. Take 

1 “ As ^oon as he [Richard Hooker] was perfectly recovered from his 
sickness [in 1571, when he was eighteen years old], he took a journey from 
Oxford to Exeter, to satisfy and see his good mother, being accompanied with 
a countryman and companion of his own college, and both on foot — which 
was then either more in fashion, or want of money or their humility made it 
so ; but on foot they went, and took Salisbury in their way, purposely to see 
the good bishop [Jewel], who made Mr. Hooker and his companion dine 
with him at his own table, which Mr. Hooker boasted of with much joy and 
gratitude when he saw his mother and friends ; and at the bishop’s parting 
with him the bishop gave him good counsel and his benediction, but forgot 
to give him money ; which when the bishop had considered, he sent a servant 
in all haste to call Richard back to him ; and at Richard’s return the bishop 
said to him, ‘ Richard, I sent for you back to lend you a horse which hath 
carried me many a mile, and, I thank God, with much ease,’ and presently 
delivered into his hand a walking staff, with which he professed he had traveled 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 


33 


^om me the same horse that was given him by the good Bishop 
Jewel — this staff; and this book too; it will be your comfort 
on the way ; these two lines in it are worth a million : ‘ I have 
been young, and now am old ; yet have I not seen the righteous 
forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.’ ^ Let this be your 
consolation as you travel on. Go, my boy ; whatever be thy 
fortune, let me see thee once a year. Still keep a good heart, 
and farewell.” As he was possessed of integrity and honor, I 
was under no apprehensions for throwing him naked into the 
amphitheater of life, for I knew he would act a good part 
whether vanquished or victorious. 

His departure only prepared the way for our own, which ar- 
rived a few days afterwards. The leaving a neighborhood in 
which we had enjoyed so many hours of tranquillity was not 
without a tear which scarcely fortitude itself could suppress. 
Besides, a journey of seveg^ miles to a family that had hitherto 
never been above ten from home filled us with apprehension; 
and the cries of the poor, who followed us for some miles, con- 
tributed to increase it. The first day’s journey brought us in 
safety within thirty miles of our future retreat, and we put up for 
the night at an obscure inn in a village by the way. When we 
were shown a room, I desired the landlord, in my usual way, to 
let us have his company ; with which he complied, as what he 
drank would increase the bill next morning. He knew, howe/er, 
the whole neighborhood to which I was removing, particularly 

through many parts of Germany. And he said, ‘ Richard, I do not give, but 
lend you my horse ; be sure you be honest, and bring my horse back to me 
at your return this way to Oxford. And I do now give you ten groats to 
bear your charges to Exeter ; and here is ten groats more, which I charge 
you to deliver to your mother, and tell her I send a bishop’s benediction with 
it, and beg the continuance of her prayers for me. And if you bring my 
horse back to me I will give you ten groats more to carry you on foot to the 
college ; and so God bless you, good Richard. ’ ” (From The Life of Richard 
Hooker^ the happy author of five (if not more ) of the eight learned books of the 
Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity^ by Isaac Walton.) 

1 See Ps. xxxvii. 25. 


34 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


Squire Thornhill, who was to be my landlord, and who lived 
within a few miles of the place. This gentleman he described 
as one who desired to know little more of the world than its 
pleasures, being particularly remarkable for his attachment to 
the fair sex. Though this account gave me some pain, it had a 
very different effect upon my daughters, whose features seemed 
to brighten with the expectation of an approaching triumph ; nor 
was my wife less pleased and confident of their allurements and 
virtue. While our thoughts were thus employed, the hostess en- 
tered the room to inform her husband that the strange gentle- 
man who had been two days in the house wanted njoney and 
could not satisfy them for his reckoning. “ Want money ! ” re- 
plied the host, ''that must be impossible; for it was no later 
than yesterday he paid three guineas to our beadle ^ to spare an 
old broken soldier that was to be whipped through the town for 
dog stealing.” The hostess, however, still persisting in her first 
assertion, he was preparing to leave the room, swearing that he 
would be satisfied one way or another, when I begged the land- 
lord would introduce me to a stranger of so much charity as he 
described. With this he complied, showing in a gentleman who 
seemed to be about thirty, dressed in clothes that once were, laced.2 
His person was well formed, and his face marked with the lines 
of thinking. He had something short and dry in his address, and 
seemed not to understand ceremony, or to despise it. Upon the 
landlord’s leaving the room, I could not avoid expressing my con- 
cern to the stranger at seeing a gentleman in such circumstances, 
and offered him my purse to satisfy the present demand. " I 
take it with all my heart, sir,” replied he, "and am glad that a 
late oversight in giving what money I had about me has shown 
me that there are still some men like you. I must, however, 
previously entreat being informed of the name and residence of 
my benefactor, in order to repay him as soon as possible.” In 
this I satisfied him fully, not only mentioning my name and late 

1 A parish officer in England who punishes petty offenses. 

2 Trimmed with lace. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 


'35 

misfortunes, but the place to which I was going to remove. 
“This,” cried he, “happens still more luckily than I hoped for, 
as I am going the same way myself, having been detained here 
two days by the floods, which I hope by to-morrow will be found 
passable.” I testified the pleasure I should have in his company, 
and my wife and daughters joining in entreaty, he was prevailed 
upon to stay supper.i The stranger’s conversation, which was at 
once pleasing and instructive, induced me to wish for a continu- 
ance of it ; but it was now high time to retire, and take refresh- 
ment against the fatigues of the following day. 

The next morning we all set forward together, my family on 
horseback, while Mr. Burchell, our new companion, walked along 
the footpath by the roadside, observing, with a smile, that as we 
were ill mounted, he would be too generous to attempt leaving 
us behind. As the floods were not yet subsided, we were obliged 
to hire a guide, who trotted on before, Mr. Burchell and I bring- 
ing up the rear. We lightened the fatigues of the road with phil- 
osophical disputes, which he seemed to understand perfectly. 
But what surprised me most was that, though he was a money 
borrower, he defended his opinions with as much obstinacy as if 
he had been my patron. He now and then also informed me to 
whom the different seats belonged that lay in our view as we 
traveled the road. “ That,” cried he, pointing to a very magnifi- 
cent house which stood at some distance, “ belongs to Mr. Thorn- 
hill, a young gentleman who enjoys a large fortune, though en- 
tirely dependent on the will of his uncle. Sir William Thornhill, a 
gentleman who, content with a little himself, permits his nephew 
to enjoy the rest, and chiefly resides in town.” 

"“\^at !” cried I, “is my young landlord, then, the nephew 
of a man whose virtues, generosity, and singularities are so uni- 
versally known ? I have heard Sir William Thornhill represented 
as one of the most generous yet whimsical men in the kingdom ; 
a man of consummate benevolence.” 

“Something, perhaps, too much so,” replied Mr. Burchell; 

1 We should now say, “ stay to supper.” 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


36 

''at least he carried benevolence to an excess when young; 
for his passions were then strong, and as they were all upon 
the side of virtue, they led it up to a romantic extreme. 
He early began to aim at the qualifications of the soldier and 
scholar, was soon distinguished in the army, and had some 
reputation among men of learning. Adulation ever follows the 
ambitious; for such alone receive most pleasure from flattery. 
He was surrounded with crowds, who showed him only one side 
of their character, so that he began to lose a regard for private 
interest in universal sympathy. He loved all mankind ; for for- 
tune prevented him from knowing that there were rascals. Physi- 
cians tell us of a disorder in which the whole body is so exqui- 
sitely sensible that the slightest touch gives pain. What some have 
thus suffered in their persons, this gentleman felt in his mind. 
The slightest distress, whether real or fictitious, touched him to 
the quick, and his soul labored under a sickly sensibility of the 
miseries of others. Thus disposed to relieve, it will be easily 
conjectured he found numbers disposed to solicit. His profusions 
began to impair his fortune, but not his good nature ; that, in- 
deed, was seen to increase as the other seemed to decay ; he grew 
improvident as he grew poor ; and though he talked like a man 
of sense, his actions were those of a fool. Still, however, being 
surrounded with importunity, and no longer able to satisfy every 
request that was made of him, instead of money he gave promises. 
They were all he had to bestow, and he had not resolution enough 
to give any man pain by a denial. By this he drew round him 
crowds of dependents, whom he was sure to disappoint, yet 
wished to relieve. These hung upon him for a time, and left 
him with merited reproaches and contempt. But in proportion 
as he became contemptible to others, he became despicable to 
himself. His mind had leaned upon their adulation, and that 
support taken away, he could find no pleasure in the applause of 
his heart, which he had never learned to reverence. The world 
now began to wear a different aspect; the flattery of his friends 
began to dwindle into simple approbation. Approbation soon 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


37 


took the more friendly form of advice, and advice when rejected 
produced their reproaches. He now, therefore, found that such 
friends as benefits had gathered round him were little estimable ; 
he now found that a man’s own heart must be ever given to gain 
that of another. I now found that — that — I forgot what I was 
going to observe — in short, sir, he resolved to respect himself, and 
laid down a plan of restoring his fallen fortune. For this pur- 
pose, in his own whimsical manner, he traveled through Europe 
on foot, and now, though he has scarcely attained the age of 
thirty, his circumstances are more affluent than ever. At present 
his bounties are more rational and more moderate than before ; 
but still he preserves the character of a humorist, and finds most 
pleasure in eccentric virtues.” ^ 

My attention was so much taken up by Mr. Burchell’s account 
that I scarcely looked forward as we went along, till we were 
alarmed by the cries of my family ; when, turning, I perceived 
my youngest daughter in the midst of a rapid stream, thrown 
from her horse, and struggling with the torrent. She had sunk 
twice, nor was it in my power to disengage myself in time to bring 
her relief. My sensations were even too violent to permit my at- 
tempting her rescue ; she must have certainly perished had not 
my companion, perceiving her danger, instantly plunged in to 
her relief, and, with some difficulty, brought her safely to the op- 
posite shore. By taking the current a little farther up, the rest of 
the family got safely over, where we had an opportunity of join- 
ing our acknowledgments to hers. Her gratitude may be more 
readily imagined than described ; she thanked her deliverer more 
with looks than words, and continued to lean upon his arm, as if 
still willing to receive assistance. My wife also hoped one day 
to have the pleasure of returning his kindness at her own house. 
Thus, after we were refreshed at the next inn, and had dined 

1 It can scarcely be doubted that Goldsmith, in this speech of Mr. Burchell, 
gave his own experiences and character. We find like expressions in The 
Good-natured Man, and in the accounts of the Gentleman in Black in Letters 
from a Citizen of the World. 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


38 

together, as Mr. Burchell was going to a different part of the 
country he took leave ; and we pursued our journey, my wife ob- 
serving as we went that she liked him extremely, and protesting 
that, if he had birth and fortune to entitle him to match into such 
a family as ours, she knew no man she would sooner fix upon. 
I could not but smile to hear her talk in this lofty strain ; one al- 
most at the verge of beggary thus to assume the language of the 
most insulting affluence might excite the ridicule of ill nature ; 
but I was never much displeased with those harmless delusions 
that tend to make us more happy. 


CHAPTER IV. 

A PROOF THAT EVEN THE HUMBLEST FORTUNE MAY GRANT HAPPINESS, 
WHICH DEPENDS NOT ON CIRCUMSTANCES BUT CONSTITUTION. 

T he place of our retreat was in a little neighborhood consist- 
ing of farmers who tilled their own grounds, and were equal 
strangers to opulence and poverty. As they had almost all the 
conveniences of life within themselves, they seldom visi^d towns 
or cities in search of superfluity. Remote from the polite, they 
still retained the primeval simplicity of manners ; and frugal by 
habit, they scarcely knew that temperance was a virtue. They 
wrought with cheerfulness on days of labor, but observed fes- 
tivals as intervals of idleness and pleasure. They kept up the 
Christmas carol, sent truelove knots on Valentine morning, ate 
pancakes on Shrovetide, showed their wit on the ist of April, and 
religiously cracked nuts on Michaelmas eve.^ Being apprised of 

1 These were old-fashioned forms and observances, a part of which have 
fortunately not yet died out among English-speaking people. Beautiful old 
carols are still sung to commemorate the Nativity, and the twisted love knot 
is still a token of interwoven affection on good St. Valentine’s Day. The 
eating of pancakes as a beginning of Lenten austerities and supposed spiritual 
purification does not now prevail, but “ showing wit ” on April Fools’ Day is 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


39 


our approach, the whole neighborhood came out to meet their 
minister, dressed in their finest clothes, and preceded by pipe and 
tabor. A feast was also provided for our reception, at which we 
sat cheerfully down ; and what the conversation wanted in wit 
was made up in laughter. 

Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a sloping hill, 
sheltered with beautiful underwood behind and a prattling river 
before ; on one side a meadow, on the other a green. My farm 
consisted of about twenty acres of excellent land, I having given a 
hundred pounds for my predecessor’s good will.i Nothing could 
exceed the neatness of my little inclosures, the elms and hedge- 
rows appearing with inexpressible beauty. My house consisted 
of but one story, and was covered with thatch, which gave it an 
air of great snugness ; the walls on the inside were nicely white- 
washed, and my daughters undertook to adorn them with pictures 
of their own designing. Though the same room served us for 
parlor and kitchen, that only made it the warmer. Besides, as it 
was kept with the utmost neatness, the dishes, plates, and coppers 
being well scoured, and all disposed in bright rows on the shelves, 
the eye was agreeably relieved, and did not want richer furniture. 
There were three other apartments, — one for my wife and me, 
anothe?^for our two daughters, within our own, and the third, 
with two beds, for the rest of the children. 

The little republic to which I gave laws was regulated in the 
following manner. By sunrise we all assembled in our common 
apartment, the fire being previously kindled by the servant. 
After we had saluted each other with proper ceremony — for I 
always thought fit to keep up some mechanical forms of good 
breeding', without which freedom ever destroys friendship — we 
all bent in gratitude to that Being who gave .us another day. 
This duty being performed, my son and I went to pursue our 

not uncommon. St. Michael’s feast was on the 29th of September, and in 
troduced, to the popular mind, autumnal sports and habits. 

1 “Good will” in this case means advantage or benefit purchased from 
an outgoing tenant. 


40 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


usual industry abroad, while my wife and daughters employed 
themselves in providing breakfast, which was always ready at a 
certain time. I allowed half an hour for this meal, and an hour 
for dinner ; which time was taken up in innocent mirth between 
my wife and daughters, and in philosophical arguments between 
my son and me. 

As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our labors after 
it was gone down, but returned home to the expecting family ; 
where smiling looks, a neat hearth, and pleasant fire were pre- 
pared for our reception. Nor were we without guests; some- 
times Farmer Flamborough, our talkative neighbor, and often the 
blind piper, would pay us a visit, and taste our gooseberry wine, 
for the making of which we had lost neither the receipt nor the 
reputation. These harmless people had several ways of being 
good company; while one played, the other would sing some 
soothing ballad, — ‘‘Johnny Armstrong’s Last Good Night,” or 
” The Cruelty of Barbara Allen.” The night was concluded in 
the manner we began the morning, my youngest boys being ap- 
pointed to read the lessons ^ of the day; and he that read loud- 
est, distinctest, and best was to have a halfpenny on Sunday to 
put in the poor’s box. 

When Sunday came, it was, indeed, a day of finery, which all 
my sumptuary ^ edicts could not restrain. How well soever I 
fancied my lectures against pride had conquered the vanity of 
my daughters, yet I found them still secretly attached to all their 
former finery; they still loved laces, ribbons, bugles, and catgut.^ 
My wife herself retained a passion for her crimson paduasoy,^ 
because I formerly happened to say it became her. 


1 Selections from the Old and New Testaments to be read at morning and 
evening prayer. 

2 Relating to expense or expenditure. 

3 A coarse cloth which was overwrought or embroidered. Allusions to 
working it are made on pp. 66 and 73 . 

4 Silk from Padua, 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


41 


The first Sunday in particular their behavior served to mortify 
me. I had desired my girls the preceding night to be dressed early 
the next day, for I always loved to be at church a good while be- 
fore the rest of the congregation. They punctually obeyed my 
directions; but when we were to assemble in the morning at 
breakfast, down came my wife and daughters dressed out in all 
their former splendor, — their hair plastered up with pomatum, 
their faces patched ^ to taste, their trains bundled up in a heap 
behind, and rustling at every motion. I could not help smiling 
at their vanity, particularly that of my wife, from whom I ex- 
pected more discretion. In this exigence, therefore, my only 
resource was to order my son, witli an important air, to call our 
coach. The girls were amazed at the command ; but I repeated 
it with more solemnity than before. Surely, my dear, you jest,” 
cried my wife ; “ we can walk it perfectly well ; we want no coach 
to carry us now.” “You mistake, child,” returned I; “we do 
want a coach ; for if we walk to church in this trim, the very 
children in the parish will hoot after us.” “ Indeed,” replied my 
wife, “ I always imagined that my Charles was fond of seeing his 
children neat and handsome about him.” “You may be as neat 
as you please,” interrupted I, “and I shall love you the better 
for it ; but all this is not neatness, but frippery. These rufflings 
and pinkings and patchings will only make us hated by all the 
wives of all our neighbors. No, my children,” continued I, more 
gravely, “ those gowns may be altered into something of a plainer 
cut ; for finery is very unbecoming in us who want the means of 
decency. I do not know whether such flouncing and shredding 2 
is becoming even in the rich, if we consider, upon a moderate 
calculation, that the nakedness of the indigent world might be 
clothed from the trimmings of the vain.” 

This remonstrance had a proper effect ; they went with great 

1 A patch was a small piece of black silk, cut in such forms as a coach, a 
coachman, two horses and a postilion, a star, a crescent, a round spot, — and 
stuck on the face or neck. It w^as supposed to heighten beauty. 

2 Cutting into strips and bifs. 


42 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


composure, that very instant, to change their dress ; and the next 
day I had the satisfaction of finding my daughters, at their own 
request, employed in cutting up their trains into Sunday waist- 
coats for Dick and Bill, the two little ones ; and, what was still 
more satisfactory, the gowns seemed improved by this curtailing. 



CHAPTER V. 


A NEW AND GREAT ACQUAINTANCE INTRODUCED. WHAT WE PLACE MOST 
HOPES UPON GENERALLY PROVES MOST FATAL. 


A t a small distance from the house my predecessor had made 
^ a seat, overshadowed by a hedge of hawthorn and honey- 
suckle. Here, when the weather was fine and our labor soon fin- 
ished, we usually sat together to enjoy an extensive landscape in 
the calm of the evening. Here, too, we drank tea, which was now 
become an occasional banquet ; and, as we had it but seldom, it 
diffused a new joy, the preparations for it being made with no 
small share of bustle and ceremony. On these occasions our 
two little ones always read to us, and they were regularly served 
after we had done. Sometimes, to give a variety to our amuse- 
ments, the girls sung to the guitar ; and while they thus formed 
a little concert, my wife and I would stroll down the sloping 
field, that was embellished with bluebells and centaury, i talk of 
our children with rapture, and enjoy the breeze that wafted both 
health and harmony. In this manner we began to find that every 
situation in life might bring its own peculiar pleasures ; every morn- 
ing awaked us to a repetition of toil, but the evening repaid it 
with vacant hilarity. 

It was about the beginning of the autumn, on a holiday, — for 
I kept such as intervals of relaxation from labor, — that I had 
drawn out my family to our usual place of amusement, and our 

1 A kind of gentian bearing a red flower. It is a common herb. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


43 


young musicians began their usual concert. As we were thus 
engaged we saw a stag bound nimbly by, within about twenty 
paces of where we were sitting, and by its panting it seemed 
pressed by the hunters. We had not much time to reflect upon 
the poor animal’s distress, when we perceived the dogs and horse- 
men come sweeping along at some distance behind, and making 
the very path it had taken. I was instantly for returning in with 
my family ; but either curiosity, or surprise, or some more hidden 
motive, held my wife and daughters to their seats. The hunts- 
man who rode foremost passed us with great swiftness, followed 
by four or five persons more, who seemed in equal haste. At 
last a young gentleman of a more genteel appearance than the 
rest came forward, and, for a while regarding u&, instead of pur- 
suing the chase, stopped short, and giving his horse to a servant 
who attended, approached us with a careless, superior air. He 
seemed to want no introduction, but was going to salute my 
daughters, as one certain of a kind reception ; but they had early 
learned the lesson of looking presumption out of countenance; 
upon which he let us know his name was Thornhill, and that he 
was the owner of the estate that lay for some extent round us. 
He again, therefore, offered to salute the female part of the 
family, and such was the power of fortune and fine clothes that 
he found no second repulse. As his address, though confident, 
was easy, we soon became more familiar; and perceiving musi- 
cal instruments lying near, he begged to be favored with a song. 
As I did not approve of such disproportioned acquaintance, I 
winked upon my daughters in order to prevent their compliance ; 
but my hint was counteracted by one from their mother, so that, 
with a cheerful air, they gave us a favorite song of Dryden’s.^ 
Mr. Thornhill seemed highly delighted with their performance 
and choice, and then took up the guitar himself. He played but 
very indifferently; however, my eldest daughter repaid his former 

1 John Dryden (1631-1700). “ It is easy,” said Pope, “ to mark out the 

general course of our [English] poetry. Chaucer, Spenser, Milton, and Dry- 
den are the great landmarks for it.” 


44 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


applause with interest, and assured him that his tones were louder 
than even those of her master. At this compliment he bowed, 
which she returned with a courtesy. He praised her taste, and 
she commended his understanding ; an age could not have made 
them better acquainted; while the fond mother, too, equally 
happy, insisted upon her landlord’s stepping in and tasting a 
glass of gooseberry. The whole family seemed earnest to please 
him. My girls attempted to entertain him with topics they thought 
most modem, while Moses, on the contrary, gave him a question 
or two from the ancients, for which he had the satisfaction of 
being laughed at, for he always ascribed to his wit that laughter 
which was lavished at his simplicity. My little ones were no less 
busy, and fondly stuck close to the stranger ; all my endeavors 
could scarce keep their fingers from handling and tarnishing the 
lace on his clothes, and lifting up the flaps of his pocket holes to 
see what was there. At the approach of evening he took leave ; 
but not till he had requested permission to renew his visit, which, 
as he was our landlord, we most readily agreed to. 

As soon as he was gone my wife called a council on the con- 
duct of the day. She was of opinion that it was a most fortunate 
hit, for that she had known even stranger things at last brought 
to bear. She hoped again to see the day in which we might hold 
up our heads with the best of them ; and concluded, she protested 
she could see no reason why the two Miss Wrinklers should marry 
great fortunes, and her children get none. As this last argument 
was directed to me, I protested I could see no reason for it, 
either, nor why Mr. Simkins got the ten-thousand-pound prize in 
the lottery, and we sat down with a blank. “ I protest, Charles,” 
cried my wife, “ this is the way you always damp my girls and 
me when we are in spirits. — Tell me, Sophy, my dear, what do 
you think of our new visitor ? Don’t you think he seemed to be 
good-natured?” ‘'Immensely so indeed, mamma,” replied she. 
“ I think he has a great deal to say upon everything, and is never 
at a loss ; and the more trifling the subject the more he has to 
say.” “Yes,” cried Olivia, “he is well enough for a man; but 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


45 


for my own part, I don’t much like him, he is so extremely im- 
pudent and familiar ; but on the guitar he is shocking.” These 
two last speeches I interpreted by contraries. I found by this that 
Sophia internally despised as much as Olivia secretly admired him. 
“ Whatever may be your opinions of him, my children,” cried I, 
“ to confess the truth, he has not prepossessed me in his favor. 
Disproportioned friendships ever terminate in disgust; and I 
thought, notwithstanding all his ease, that he seemed perfectly 
sensible of the distance between us. Let us keep to companions 
of our own rank. There is no character more contemptible than 
a man that is a fortune hunter; and I can see no reason why 
fortune-hunting women should not be contemptible too. Thus, 
at best, we shall be contemptible if his views be honorable ; but 
if they be otherwise ! I should shudder but to think of that. 
It is true I have no apprehensions from the conduct of my chil- 
dren, but I think there are some from his character.” I would 
have proceeded, but for the interruption of a servant from the 
Squire, who, with his compliments, sent us a side of venison, and 
a promise to dine with us some days after. This well-timed 
present pleaded more powerfully in his favor than anything I 
had to say could obviate. I therefore continued silent, satisfied 
with just having pointed out danger, and leaving it to their own 
discretion to avoid it. That virtue which requires to be ever 
guarded is scarcely worth the sentinel. 


CHAPTER VI. 


THE HAPPINESS OF A COUNTRY FIRESIDE. 


5 we carried on the former dispute with some degree of 



warmth, in order to accommodate matters it was univer- 
sally agreed that we should have a part of the venison for supper ; 
and the girls undertook the task with alacrity. “I am sorry,” 
cried I, “ that we have no neighbor or stranger to take a part in 


46 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 


this good cheer ; feasts of this kind acquire a double relish from 
hospitality.” Bless me! ” cried my wife, ‘'here comes our good 
friend Mr. Burchell, that saved our Sophia, and that ran you down 
fairly in the argument.” “ Confute me in argument, child 1 ” cried 
I. “You mistake there, my dear; I believe there are but few 
that can do that ; I never dispute your abilities at making a goose 
pie, and I beg you’ll leave argument to me.” As I spoke, poor 
Mr. Burchell entered the house, and was welcomed by the family, 
who shook him heartily by the hand, while little Dick officiously 
reached him a chair. 

I was pleased with the poor man’s friendship, for two rea- 
sons, — because I knew that he wanted mine, and I knew him to 
be friendly as far as he was able. He was known in our neigh- 
borhood by the character of the poor gentleman that would do 
no good when he was young, though he was not yet thirty. He 
would at intervals talk with great good sense ; but in general he 
was fondest of the company of children, whom he used to call 
harmless little men. He was famous, I found, for singing them 
ballads and telling them stories, and seldom went out without 
something in his pockets for them, — a piece of gingerbread, or a 
halfpenny whistle. He generally came for a few days into our 
neighborhood once a year, and lived upon the neighbors’ hospi- 
tality. He sat down to supper among us, and my wife was not 
sparing of her gooseberry wine. The tale went round ; he sung 
us old songs, and gave the children the story of the “ Buck of 
Beverland,” with the history of “ Patient Grissel,” the adventures 
of “ Catskin,” and then “ Fair Rosamond’s Bower.” ^ Our cock, 
which always crew at eleven, now told us it was time for re- 
pose ; but an unforeseen difficulty started about lodging the 
stranger; all our beds were already taken up, and it was too 
late to send him to the next alehouse. In this dilemma little 

1 Of these old tales the best known are Patient Grissel — which has been 
told in English by Chaucer, and by many ballad and chapbook writers — and 
Catskin, preserved in many nursery versions. The ballad of Fair Rosamond’s 
Bower had great popularity in the last century. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


47 


Dick offered him his part of the bed, if his brother Moses would 
let him lie with him. “And I,” cried Bill, “will give Mr. Bur- 
chell my part, if my sisters will take me to theirs.” “Well done, 
my good children,” cried I ; “ hospitality is one of the first Chris- 
tian duti^»*J The beast retires to his shelter, and the bird flies to 
its nest, but nelpless man can only find refuge from his fellow- 
creature. The greatest stranger in this world was He that came 
to save it. He never had a house, as if willing to see what hos- 
pitality was left remaining amongst us. — Deborah, my dear,” 
cried I to my wife, “ give those boys a lump of sugapeach, and 
let Dick’s be the largest, because he spoke first.” 

In the morning early I called out my whole family to help at 
saving an aftergrowth of hay ; and our guest offering his assist- 
ance, he was accepted among the number. Our labors went on 
lightly ; we turned the swath to the wind. I went foremost, and 
the rest followed in due succession. I could not avoid, however, 
observing the assiduity of Mr. Burchell in assisting my daughter 
Sophia in her part of the task. When he had finished his own, 
he would join in hers, and enter into a close conversation ; but I 
had too good an opinion of Sophia’s understanding, and was too 
well convinced of her ambition, to be under any uneasiness from 
a man of broken fortune. When we were finished for the day, 
Mr. Burchell was invited as on the night before ; but he refused, 
as he was to lie that night at a neighbor’s, to whose child he was 
carrying a whistle. When gone, our conversation at supper 
turned upon our late unfortunate guest. “ What a strong in- 
stance,” said I, “is that poor man of the miseries attending a 
youth of levity and extravagance ! He by no means wants 
sense, which only serves to aggravate his former folly. Poor, 
forlorn creature! where are now the revelers, the flatterers, that 
he could once inspire and command ! Their former raptures at 
his wit are now converted into sarcasms at his folly ; he is poor, 
and perhaps deserves poverty; for he has neither the ambition 
to be independent, nor the skill to be useful.” Prompted, per- 
haps, by some secret reasons, I delivered this observation with 


48 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


too much acrimony, which my Sophia gently reproved : What- 
soever his former conduct may have been, papa, his circumstances 
should exempt him from censure now. His present indigence is 
a sufficient punishment for former folly ; and I have heard my 
papa himself say that we should never strike one unnecessary 
blow at a victim over whom Providence holds the scourge of its 
resentment.” “You are right, Sophy,” cried my son Moses; 
“ and one of the ancients finely represents so malicious a conduct 
by the attempts of a rustic to flay Marsyas, whose skin, the fable 
tells us, had been wholly stripped off by another.^ Besides, I 
don’t know if this poor man’s situation be so bad as my father 
would represent it. We are not to judge of the feelings of others 
by what we might feel if in their place. However dark the habi- 
tation of the mole to our eyes, yet the animal itself finds the 
apartment sufficiently lightsome. And to confess the truth, this 
man’s mind seems fitted to his station ; for I never heard any one 
more sprightly than he was to-day, when he conversed with you.” 
This was said without the least design ; however, it excited a 
blush, which she strove to cover by an affected laugh, assuring 
him that she scarcely took any notice of what he said to her, but 
that she believed he might once have been a very fine gentleman. 
The readiness with which she undertook to vindicate herself, and 
her blushing, were symptoms I did not internally approve ; but I 
repi^essed my suspicions. 

As we expected our landlord the next day, my wife went to 
make the venison pasty. Moses sat reading, while I taught the 
little ones. My daughters seemed equally busy with the rest ; and 
I observed them for a good while cooking something over the fire. 
I at first supposed they were assisting their mother; but little 
Dick informed me in a whisper that they were making a wash 
for the face. Washes of all kinds I had a natural antipathy to ; 
for I knew that, instead of mending the complexion, they spoiled 

1 According to Greek legend, Apollo flayed Marsyas alive for his presump- 
tion in playing against him. Marsyas had found the flute which Athena 
threw away, and challenged Apollo with his lyre. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


49 


it. I therefore approached my chair by sly degrees to the fire, 
and grasping the poker as if it wanted mending, seemingly by 
accident overturned the whole composition, and it was too late 
to begin another. 


CHAPTER VII. 

A TOWN WIT DESCRIBED. THE DULLEST FELLOWS MAY LEARN TO BE 
COMICAL FOR A NIGHT OR TWO. 

W HEN the morning arrived on which we were to entertain 
our young landlord, it may be easily supposed what pro- 
visions were exhausted to make an appearance. It may also be 
conjectured that my wife and daughters expended their gayest 
plumage upon this occasion. Mr. Thornhill came with a couple 
of friends, his chaplain and feeder.^ The servants, who were 
numerous, he politely ordered to the next alehouse ; but my wife, 
in the triumph of her heart, insisted on entertaining them all ; for 
which, by the by, our family was pinched for three weeks after. 
As Mr. Burchell had hinted to us the day before that he was 
making some proposals of marriage to Miss Wilmot, my son 
George’s former sweetheart, this a good deal damped the hearti- 
ness of his reception ; but accident in some measure relieved oui 
embarrassment; for one of the company happening to mention 
her name, Mr. Thornhill observed with an oath that he never 
knew anything more absurd than calling such a fright a beauty ; 
“ for strike me ugly,” continued he, “ if I should not find as 
much pleasure in choosing my wife by the information of a lamp 
under the clock at St. Dunstan’s.” At this he laughed, and so 
did we ; the jests of the, rich are ever successful. Olivia, too, 
could not avoid whispering, loud enough to be heard, that he 
had an infinite fund of humor. 

After dinner I began with my usual toast, the Church. P'or this 


1 A servant ; a dependent supported by his lord. 


50 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


I was thanked by the chaplain, as he said the Church was the 
only mistress of his affections. '' Come, tell us honestly, Frank,” 
said the Squire, with his usual archness ; suppose the Church, 
your present mistress, dressed in lawn sleeves, on one hand, and 
Miss Sophia, with no lawn about her, on the other ; which would 
you be for ? ” “ For both, to be sure,” cried the chaplain. 

“Right, Frank,” cried the Squire; “for may this glass suffocate 
me but a fine girl is worth all the priestcraft in the creation. For 
what are tithes and tricks^ but an imposition — all a confounded 
imposture? And I can prove it.” “ I wish you would,” cried 
my son Moses ; “ and I think,” continued he, “ that I should be 
able to answer you.” “ Very well, sir,” cried the Squire, who im- 
mediately smoked him,2 and winking on the rest of the company 
to prepare us for some sport; “if you are for a cool argument 
upon that subject, I am ready to accept the challenge. And first, 
whether you are for managing it analogically or dialogically ? ” 
“ I am for managing it rationally,” cried Moses, quite happy at 
being permitted to dispute. “ Good again,” cried the Squire ; 
“ and firstly, of the first, I hope you’ll not deny that whatever is, 

is. If you don’t grant me that, I can go no further.” “ Wh}^” 
returned Moses, “ I think I may grant that, and make the best of 

it. ” “ I hope, too,” returned the other, “you’ll grant that a part 
is less than the whole.” “ I grant that too,” cried Moses; “it is 
but just and reasonable.” “ I hope,” cried the Squire, “ you will 
not deny that the two angles of a triangle are equal to two right 
ones.” “ Nothing can be plainer,” returned the other, and looked 
round with his usual importance. “Very well,” cried the Squire, 
speaking very quick ; “ the premises being thus settled, I proceed 
to observe that the concatenation of self-existence, proceeding in 
a reciprocal duplicate ratio, naturally produces a problematical 
dialogism, which in some measure proves that the essence of 
spirituality may be referred to the second predicable.” “ Hold, 

* “ Tithes ” stands here for taxes, and “ tricks ” for ceremonials. 

2 “Smoked him,” i.e., perceived his innocence. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


51 


hold! ” cried the other; “ I deny that. Do you think I can thus 
tamely submit to such heterodox doctrines ? ” “ What ! ” replied 
the Squire, as if in a passion, “ not submit I Answer me one 
plain question: do you think Aristotle right when he says that 
relatives are related ? ” “ Undoubtedly,” replied the other. If 
so, then,” cried the Squire, ‘'answer me directly to what I pro- 
pose : Whether do you judge the analytical investigation of tlie 
first part of my enthymeme deficient secundum quoad, or quoad 
minus, and give me your reasons ; give me your reasons, I say, 
directly.” “ I protest,” cried Moses, “ I don’t rightly comprehend 
the force of your reasoning ; but if it be reduced to one simple 
proposition, I fancy it may then have an answer.” “ O sir,” cried 
the Squire, “ I am your most humble servant ; I find you want me 
to furnish you with argument and intellects too. No, sir; there 
I protest you are too hard for me.” This effectually raised the 
laugh against poor Moses, who sat the only dismal figure in a 
group of merry faces ; nor did he offer a single syllable more 
during the whole entertainment. 

But though all this gave me no pleasure, it had a very different 
effect upon Olivia, who mistook it for humor, though but a mere 
act of the memory. She thought him, therefore, a very fine 
gentleman ; and such as consider what powerful ingredients a 
good figure, fine clothes, and fortune are in that character will 
easily forgive her. Mr. Thornhill, notwithstanding his real igno- 
rance, talked with ease, and could expatiate upon the common 
topics of conversation -with fluency. It is not surprising, then, 
that such talents should win the affections of a girl who by edu- 
cation was taught to value an appearance in herself, and conse- 
quently to set a value upon it in another. 

Upon his departure we again entered into a debate upon the 
merits of our young landlord. As he directed his looks and con- 
versation to Olivia, it was no longer doubted but that she was the 
object that induced him to be our visitor. Nor did she seem to 
be much displeased at the innocent raillery of her brother and 
sister upon this occasion. Even Deborah herself seemed to share 


52 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


the glory of the day, and exulted in her daughter’s victory as if 
it were her own. And now, my dear,” cried she to me, '' I’ll 
fairly own that it was I that instructed my girls to encourage our 
landlord’s addresses. I had always some ambition, and you now 
see that I was right ; for who knows how this may end ? ” “ Ay, 
who knows that indeed ! ” answered I, with a groan ; for my 
part, I don’t much like it ; and I could have been better pleased 
with one that was poor and honest, than this fine gentleman with 
his fortune and infidelity ; for, depend on’t, if he be what I sus- 
)t him, no freethinker shall ever have a child of mine.” 



Sure, father,” cried Moses, “ you are too severe in this, for 
Heaven will never arraign him for what he thinks, but for what 
he does. Every man has a thousand vicious thoughts, which 
arise without his power to suppress. Thinking freely of religion 
may be involuntary with this gentleman; so that, allowing his 
sentiments to be wrong, yet as he is purely passive in his assent, 
he is no more to be blamed for his errors than the governor of 
a city without walls for the shelter he is obliged to afford an 
invading enemy.” 

“True, my son,” cried I; “but if the governor invites the 
enemy there, he is justly culpable. And such is always the case 
with those who embrace error. The vice does not lie in assenting 
to the proofs they see, but in being blind to many of the proofs 
that offer. Like corrupt judges on a bench, they determine right 
to that part of the evidence they hear ; but they will not hear all 
the evidence. Thus, my son, though our erroneous opinions be 
involuntary when formed, yet as we have been willfully corrupt or 
very negligent in forming them, we deserve punishment for our 
vice, or contempt for our folly.” 

My wife now kept up the conversation, though not the argu- 
ment. She observed that several very prudent men of our ac- 
quaintance were freethinkers, and made very good husbands; 
and she knew some sensible girls that had skill enough to make 
converts of their spouses. “ And who knows, my dear,” continued 
she, “ what Olivia may be able to do? The girl has a great deal 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, S3 

to say upon every subject, and to my knowledge is very well 
skilled in controversy.” 

“ Why, my dear, what controversy can she have read ? ” cried 
I. “ It does not occur to me that I ever put such books into 
her hand ; you certainly overrate her merit.” Indeed, papa,” 
replied Olivia, “ she does not ; I have read a great deal of con- 
troversy. I have read the disputes between Thwackum and 
Square,^ the controversy between Robinson Crusoe and Friday 
the savage, and am now employed in reading the controversy in 
‘Religious Courtship.’ ” 2 “Very well,” cried I, “that’s a good 
girl ; I find you are perfectly qualified for making converts ; and 
so help your mother to make the gooseberry pie.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

AN AMOUR WHICH PROMISES LITTLE GOOD FORTUNE, YET MAY BE PRO- 
DUCTIVE OF MUCH. 

T he next morning we were again visited by Mr. Burchell, 
though I began, for certain reasons, to be displeased with 
the frequency of his return ; but I could not refuse him my com- 
pany and my fireside. It is true, his labor more than requited his 
entertainment ; for he wrought among us with vigor, and either 
in the meadow or at the hayrick put himself foremost. Besides, 
he had always something amusing to say that lessened our toil, 

1 A parson and a philosopher in Henry Fielding’s masterpiece, Tom Tones . 
“To bring truth to light was by the parson asserted to be the duty of every 
religious man ; and by the philosopher this was declared to be highly con- 
formable with the rule of right and the eternal and unalterable fitness of 
things.” Yet they “ scarce ever met without a disputation.” 

2 Daniel Defoe (1661-1731), of whose many writings Robinson Crusoe 
is best known, wrote also Religious Courtship : Historical Discourses on the 
Necessity of Marrying Religious Husbands and Wives Only. The work had 
a very considerable and lasting popularity. 


54 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


and was at once so out of the way, and yet so sensible, that I 
loved, laughed at, and pitied him. My only dislike arose from 
an attachment he discovered ^ to my daughter. He would, in a 
jesting manner, call her his little sweetheart, and when he bought 
each of the girls a set of ribbons, hers was the finest. I knew not 
how, but he every day seemed to become more amiable, his wit to 
improve, and his simplicity to assume the superior airs of wisdom. 

Our family dined in the field, and we sat, or rather reclined, 
round a temperate repast, our cloth spread upon the hay, while 
Mr. Burchell gave cheerfulness to the feast. To heighten our 
satisfaction two blackbirds answered each other from opposite 
hedges, the familiar redbreast came and pecked the crumbs from 
our hands, and every sound seemed but the echo of tranquillity. 
“ I never sit thus,” says Sophia, ‘‘ but I think of the two lovers 
so sweetly described by Mr. Gay,^ who were struck dead in each 
other’s arms. There is something so pathetic in the description 
that I have read it a hundred times with new rapture.” “ In my 
opinion,” cried my son, ‘Ghe finest strokes in that description 

1 Showed. 

2 John Gay (1688-1732). “ I have just passed part of this summer at an 
old romantic seat of my Lord Harcourt’s, which he lent me. It overlooks 
a common hayfield, where, under the shade of a haycock, sat two lovers — 
as constant as ever were found in romance — beneath a spreading bush. The 
name of the one (let it sound as it will) was John Hewet; of the other, Sarah 
Drew. John was a well-set man, about five and twenty; Sarah, a brave 
woman of eighteen. John had for several months borne the labor of the day 
in the same field with Sarah ; when she milked, it was his morning and even- 
ing charge to bring the cows to her pails. Their love was the talk, but not 
the scandal, of the whole neighborhood, for all they aimed at was the blame- 
less possession of each other in marriage. It was but this very morning 
that he had obtained her parents’ consent, and it was but till next week that 
they were to wait to be happy. Perhaps this very day,^ in the intervals of 
their work, they were talking of their wedding clothes; and John was now 
matching several kinds of poppies and field flowers, to make her a present of 
knots for the day. While they were thus employed (it was on the last of 
July), a terrible storm of thunder and lightning arose, that drove the laborers 
to what shelter the trees or hedges afforded. Sarah, frightened and out of 
breath, sunk on a haycock; and John (who never separated from her) sat by 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 55 

are much below those in the Acis and Galatea ” of Ovidd The 
Roman poet understands the use of contrast better, and upon 
that figure, artfully managed, all strength in the pathetic depends.” 
“ It is remarkable,” cried Mr. Burchell, “ that both the poets you 
mention have equally contributed to introduce a false taste into 
their respective countries by loading all their lines with epithet. 
Men of little genius found them most easily imitated in their de- 
fects, and English poetry, like that in the latter empire of Rome, 
is nothing at present but a combination of luxuriant images, 
without plot or connection, — a string of epithets that improve 
the sound without carrying on the sense. But perhaps, madam, 
while I thus reprehend others, you’ll think it just that I should 
give them an opportunity to retaliate ; and indeed I have made 
the remark only to have an opportunity of introducing to the 
company a ballad which, whatever be its other defects, is, I think, 
at least free from those I have mentioned.” 


A BALLAD.2 

Turn, gentle hermit of the dale. 

And guide my lonely way 
To where yon taper cheers the vale 
With hospitable ray. 

her side, having raked two or three heaps together, to secure her. Imme- 
diately there was heard so loud a crash as if the heavens had burst asunder. 
The laborers, all solicitous for each other’s safety, called to one another. Those 
that were nearest our lovers, hearing no answer, stepped to the place where 
they lay; they first saw a little smoke, and after, this faithful pair, — John 
with an arm about Sarah’s neck, and the other held over her face, as if to 
screen her from the lightning. They were struck dead, and already grown 
stiff and cold in this tender posture. There was no mark or discoloring on 
their bodies, only that Sarah’s eyebrow was a little singed, and a small spot 
upon her breast. They were buried the next day in one grave.” 

1 The story of the love of Acis and Galatea, and the jealousy of Polyphe- 
mus, which led to the death of Acis, is told by Ovid in his Metamorphoses. 

2 One of Goldsmith’s friends was Bishop Percy, who directed attention to 


$6 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


‘‘For here forlorn and lost I tread, 

With fainting steps, and slow ; 

Where wilds, immeasurably spread, 

Seem lengthening as I go.” 

“Forbear, my son,” the hermit cries, 

“To tempt the dangerous gloom; 

For yonder faithless phantom flies 
To lure thee to thy doom. 

“ Here to the houseless child of want 
My door is open still ; 

And though my portion is but scant, 

I give it with good will. 

“ Then turn to-night, and freely share 
Whate’er my cell bestows ; 

My rushy couch and frugal fare, 

My blessing and repose. 

“No flocks that range the valley free 
To slaughter I condemn ; 

Taught by that Power that pities me, 

I learn to pity them. 

“But from the mountain’s grassy side 
A guiltless feast I bring; 

A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied. 

And water from the spring. 

“ Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego*; 

All earthborn cares are wrong ; 

Man wants but little here below. 

Nor wants that little long.” 

the old ballads and collected many fine English poems in his Reliques. 
From this friendship, and out of discussions with Percy, this poem doubt- 
less grew. Goldsmith wrote it in 1765, and afterwards introduced it in this 
story. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


57 


Soft as the dew from heaven descends, 

His gentle accents fell j 

The modest stranger lowly bends. 

And follows to the cell. 

Far in a wilderness obscure 
The lonely mansion lay, 

A refuge to the neighboring poor, 

And strangers led astray. 

No stores beneath its humble thatch 
Required a master’s care ; 

The wicket, opening with a latch, 
Received the harmless pair. 

And now, when busy crowds retire 
To take their evening rest. 

The hermit trimmed his little fire, 

And cheered his pensive guest ; 

And spread his vegetable store. 

And gaily pressed and smiled; 

And, skilled in legendary lore,- 
The lingering hours beguiled. 

Around in sympathetic mirth 
Its tricks the kitten tries; 

The cricket chirrups in the hearth ; 

The crackling fagot flies. 

But nothing could a charm impart 
To soothe the stranger’s woe; 

For grief was heavy at his heart. 

And tears began to flow. 

His rising cares the hermit spied, 

With answering care opprest: 

^^And whence, unhappy youth,” he cried, 
“ The sorrows of thy breast? 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


“ From better habitations spurned, 

Reluctant dost thou rove ? 

Or grieve for friendship unreturned, 

Or unregarded love ? 

“ Alas ! the joys that fortune brings 
Are trifling, and decay; 

And those who prize the paltry things. 

More trifling still than they. 

“ And what is friendship but a name, 

A charm that lulls to sleep ; 

A shade that follows wealth or fame, 

But leaves the wretch to weep ? 

** And love is still an emptier sound, 

The modern fair one’s jest; 

On earth unseen, or only found 
To warm the turtle’s ^ nest. 

“For shame ! fond youth, thy sorrows hush, 
And spurn the sex,” he said ; 

But while he spoke, a rising blush 
His lovelorn guest betrayed. 

Surprised, he sees new beauties rise. 

Swift mantling to the view ; 

Like colors o’er the morning skies. 

As bright, as transient too. 

The bashful look, the rising breast. 

Alternate spread alarms; 

The lovely stranger stands confest 
A maid in all her charms. 

** And ah ! forgive a stranger rude, 

A wretch forlorn,” she cried; 

Whose feet unhallowed thus intrude 
Where Heaven and you reside. 


1 Turtledove’s. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 


5W 


But let a maid thy pity share. 

Whom love has taught to stray ; 

Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
Companion of her way. 

My father lived beside the Tyne, 

A wealthy lord was he ; 

And all his wealth was marked as mine; 
He had but only me. 

“To win me from his tender arms, 
Unnumbered suitors came; 

Who praised me for imputed charms. 
And felt or feigned a flame. 

Each hour a mercenary crowd 
With richest proffers strove ; 

Among the rest young Edwin bowed. 
But never talked of love. 

In humble, simplest habit clad. 

No wealth nor power had he ; 

Wisdom and worth were all he had. 

But these were all to me. 

And when beside me in the dale 
He caroled lays of love, 

His breath lent fragrance to the gale. 
And music to the grove. 

“The blossom opening to the day, 

The dews of heaven refined, 

Could naught of purity display 
To emulate his mind. 

“ The dew, the blossom on the tree. 
With charms inconstant shine ; 

Their charms were his, but, woe to me ! 
Their constancy was mine. 


oo 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


“ For still I tried each fickle art, 
Importunate and vain ; 

And while his passion touched my heart, 

I triumphed in his pain. 

“ Till quite dejected with my scorn. 

He left me to my pride ; 

And sought a solitude forlorn, 

In secret, where he died. 

“ But mine the sorrow, mine the fault. 
And well my life shall pay ; 

ril seek the solitude he sought. 

And stretch me where he lay. 

** And there forlorn, despairing, hid, 
ril lay me down and die. 

*Twas so for me that Edwin did. 

And so for him will I.” 

** Forbid it. Heaven ! ” the hermit cried. 
And clasped her to his breast ; 

The wondering fair one turned to chide ^ 
*Twas Edwin’s self that prest. 

“Turn, Angelina, ever dear I 
My charmer, turn to see 

Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here 
Restored to love and thee. 

“Thus let me hold thee to my heart. 

And every care resign ; 

And shall we never, never part, 

My life — my all that’s mine ? 

“ No, never from this hour to part. 

We’ll live and love so true ; 

The sigh that rends thy constant heart 
Shall break thy Edwin’s too.” 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 


6i 


While this ballad was reading, Sophia seemed to mix an air of 
tenderness with her approbation. But our tranquillity was soon 
disturbed by the report of a gun just by us, and immediately after 
a man was seen bursting through the hedge to take up the game 
he had killed. This sportsman was the Squire’s chaplain, who 
had shot one of the blackbirds that so agreeably entertained us. 
So loud a report, and so near, startled my daughters ; and I could 
perceive that Sophia, in the fright, had thrown herself into Mr. 
Burchell’s arms for protection. The gentleman came up and 
asked pardon for having disturbed us, affirming that he was 
ignorant of our being so near. He thereupon sat down by my 
youngest daughter, and, sportsmanlike, offered her what he had 
killed that morning. She was going to refuse, but a private look 
from her mother soon induced her to correct the mistake and 
accept his present, though with some reluctance. My wife, as 
usual, discovered her pride in a whisper, observing that Sophy 
had made a conquest of the chaplain, as well as her sister had of 
the Squire. I suspected, however, with more probability, that her 
affections were placed upon a different object. The chaplain’s 
errand was to inform us that Mr. Thornhill had provided music 
and refreshments, and intended that night giving the young ladies 
a ball by moonlight, on the grassplot before our door. “ Nor 
can I deny,” continued he, “ but I have an interest in being first 
to deliver this message, as I expect for my reward to be honored 
with Miss Sophy’s hand as a partner.” To this my girl replied 
that she should have no objection if she could do it with honor; 
"‘but here,” continued she, “is a gentleman” — looking at Mr. 
Burchell — “ who has been my companion in the task for the day, 
and it is fit he should share in its amusements.” Mr. Burchell 
returned her a compliment for her intentions, but resigned her up 
to the chaplain, adding that he was to go that night five miles, 
being invited to a harvest supper. His refusal appeared to me a 
little extraordinary ; nor could I conceive how so sensible a girl 
as my youngest could thus prefer a man of broken fortunes to 
one whose expectations were much greater. But as men are 


62 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


most capable of distinguishing merit in women, so the ladies 
often form the truest judgments of us. The two sexes seem 
placed as spies upon each other, and are furnished with different 
abilities, adapted for mutual inspection. 


CHAPTER IX. 

TWO LADIES OF GREAT DISTINCTION INTRODUCED. SUPERIOR FINERY 
EVER SEEMS TO CONFER SUPERIOR BREEDING. 

M r. BURCHELL had scarce taken leave, and Sophia con- 
sented to dance with the chaplain, when my little ones 
came running out to tell us that the Squire was come with a 
crowd of company. Upon our return in, we found our landlord, 
with a couple of under gentlemen,^ and two young ladies richly 
dressed whom he introduced as women of very great distinction 
and fashion from town. We happened not to have chairs enough 
for the whole company ; but Mr. Thornhill immediately proposed 
that every gentleman should sit in a lady’s lap. This I positively 
objected to, notwithstanding a look of disapprobation from my 
wife. Moses was therefore dispatched to borrow a couple of 
chairs; and as we were in want of ladies to make up a set of 
country dances, ^ the two gentlemen went with him in quest of a 
couple of partners. Chairs and partners were soon provided. 
The gentlemen returned with my neighbor Flamborough’s rosy 
daughters, flaunting with red topknots ; but an unlucky circum- 
stance was not adverted to: though the Miss Flamboroughs 
were reckoned the very best dancers in the parish, and under- 
stood the jig and roundabout ^ to perfection, yet they were totally 

1 “ Under gentlemen ” were doubtless well-bred men who held some posi- 
tion in the household of a nobleman. 

2 “ Country dances,” i.e., contradances, which are those in which partners 
stand opposite each other in lines. 

3 A dance performed in a circle. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 63 

unacquainted with country dances. This at first discomposed 
us ; however, after a little shoving and dragging, they at last went 
merrily on. Our music consisted of two fiddles, with a pipe and 
tabor. The moon shone bright. Mr. Thornhill and my eldest 
daughter led up the ball, to the great delight of the spectators ; 
for the neighbors, hearing what was going forward, came flocking 
about us. My girl moved with so much grace and vivacity that 
my wife could not avoid discovering the pride of her heart by 
assuring me that, though the little chit did it so cleverly, all the 
steps were stolen from herself. The ladies of the town strove 
hard to be equally easy, but without success. They swam, 
sprawled, languished, and frisked, but all would not do ; the 
gazers indeed owned that it was fine, but neighbor Flamborough 
observed that Miss Livy’s feet seemed to pat to the music as its 
echo. After the dance had continued about an hour, the two 
ladies, who were apprehensive of catching cold, moved to break 
up the ball. One of them, I thought, expressed her sentiments 
on this occasion in a very coarse manner, when she observed that, 
by the livmg jingo ^ she was all of a muck of sweat. Upon our re- 
turn to the house, we found a very elegant cold supper, which 
Mr. Thornhill had ordered to be brought with him. The con- 
versation at this time was more reserved than before. The two 
ladies threw my girls quite into the shade ; for they would talk of 
nothing but high life and high-lived company, with other fash- 
ionable topics, such as pictures, taste, Shakespeare, and the musi- 
cal glasses.^ ’Tis true they once or twice mortified us sensibly by 
slipping out an oath ; but that appeared to me as the surest symp- 

1 At the close of 1761 and in 1762 — about the time, undoubtedly, that 
Goldsmith was writing this story — musical glasses were a fad in London. 
“ Here is a charming set of glasses that sing like nightingales,” wrote the 
poet Gray to Mason on the 8th of December, 1761. Some years before they 
had been introduced with less effect. At that time Walpole wrote to a friend : 
“ The operas flourish more than in any later years ; the composer is Gluck, a 
German ; he is to have a benefit, at which he is to play on a set of drinking 
glasses which he modulates with water.” 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


64 

tom of their distinction (though I am since informed that swearing 
is perfectly unfashionable). Their finery, however, threw a veil 
over any grossness in their conversation. My daughters seemed 
to regard their superior accomplishments with envy, and what 
appeared amiss was ascribed to tiptop quality ^ breeding. But the 
condescension of the ladies was still superior to their other accom- 
plishments. One of them observed that had Miss Olivia seen a 
little more of the world, it would greatly improve her ; to which 
the other added that a single winter in town would make her little 
Sophia quite another thing. My wife warmly assented to both ; 
adding that there was nothing she more ardently desired than to 
give her girls a single winter’s polishing. To this I could not 
help replying that their breeding was already superior to their 
fortune, and that greater refinement would only ser\^e to make 
their poverty ridiculous, and give them a taste for pleasures they 
had no right to possess. “ And what pleasures,” cried Mr. Thorn- 
hill, “ do they not deserve to possess, who have so much in their 
power to bestow? As for my part,” continued he, “my fortune 
is pretty large ; but if a settlement of half my estate could give 
Olivia pleasure, it should be hers ; and the only favor I would 
ask in retium would be to add myself to the benefit.” I was not 
such a stranger to the world as to be ignorant that this was the 
fashionable cant; but I made an effort to suppress my resentment. 
“Sir,” cried I, “the family which you now condescend to favor 
with your company has been bred with as nice a sense of honor 
as you. Any attempts to injure that may be attended with very 
dangerous consequences. Honor, sir, is our only possession at 
present, and of that last treasure we must be particularly careful.” 
I was soon sorry for the warmth with which I had spoken thisj 
when the young gentleman, grasping my hand, swore he com- 
mended my spirit, though he disapproved my suspicions. 

The two ladies now began a very discreet and serious dialogue 

1 “ Quality ” in the sense of nobility or gentry is an old-fashioned expres- 
sion which has now become vulgar. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 65 

upon virtue; in this my wife, the chaplain, and I soon joined; 
and the Squire himself was at last brought to confess a sense 
of sorrow for his former excesses. We talked of the pleasures 
of temperance, and of the sunshine in the mind unpolluted with 
guilt. I was so well pleased, that my little ones were kept up 
beyond the usual time, to be edified by so much good conver- 
sation. Mr. Thornhill even went beyond me, and demanded if 
I had any objection to giving prayers. I joyfully embraced the 
proposal; and in this manner the night was passed in a most 
comfortable way, till at last the company began to think of re- 
turning. The ladies seemed very unwilling to part with my 
daughters, for whom they had conceived a particular affection, 
and joined in a request to have the pleasure of their company 
home. The Squire seconded the proposal, and my wife added 
her entreaties ; the girls, too, looked upon me as if they wished 
to go. In this perplexity I made two or three excuses, which 
my daughters as readily removed, so that at last I was obliged 
to give a peremptory refusal; for which we had nothing but 
sullen looks and short answers the whole day ensuing. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE FAMILY ENDEAVOR TO COPE WITH THEIR BETTERS. THE MISERIES 
OF THE POOR WHEN THEY ATTEMPT TO APPEAR ABOVE THEIR CIR- 
CUMSTANCES. 

I NOW began to find that all my long and painful lectures upon 
temperance, simplicity, and contentment were entirely disre- 
garded. The distinctions lately paid us by our betters awakened 
that pride which I had laid asleep, but not removed. Our win- 
dows again, as formerly, were filled with washes for the neck and 
face. The sun was dreaded as an enemy to the skin without 
doors, and the fire as a spoiler of the complexion within. My 
wife observed that rising too early would hurt her daughters’ 


66 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


eyes, that working after dinner would redden their noses, and 
she convinced me that the hands never looked so white as when 
they did nothing. Instead, therefore, of finishing George’s shirts, 
we now had them new-modeling their old gauzes, or flourishing 
upon catgut. The poor Miss Flamboroughs, their former gay 
companions, were cast off as mean acquaintances, and the whole ^ 
conversation ran upon high life and high-lived company, with 
pictures, taste, Shakespeare, and the musical glasses. 

But we could have borne all this, had not a fortune-telling 
gypsy come to raise us into perfect sublimity. The tawny sibyl 
no sooner appeared than my girls came running to me for a shil- 
ling apiece to cross her hand with silver. To say the truth, I was 
tired of being always wise, and could not help gratifying their 
request, because I loved to see them happy. I gave each of 
them a shilling ; though for the honor of the family it must be ob- 
served that they never went without money themselves, as my wife 
always let them have a guinea each, to keep in their pockets, but 
with strict injunctions never to change it. After they had been 
closeted up with the fortune teller for some time, I knew by their 
looks, upon their returning, that they had been promised some- 
thing great. “Well, my girls, how have you sped? Tell me, 
Livy, has the fortune teller given thee a pennyworth? ” “ I pro- 
test, papa,” says the girl, “I believe she deals with somebody 
that’s not right; for she positively declared that I am to be 
married to a squire in less than a twelvemonth!” “Well, now, 
Sophy, my child,” said I, “ and what sort of a husband are you 
to have ? ” “ Sir,” replied she, “ I am to have a lord soon after 
my sister has married the squire.” “How!” crieid I, “is that 
all you are to have for your two shillings? Only a lord and a 
squire for two shillings! You fools! I could have promised you 
a prince and a nabob ^ for half the money.” 

This curiosity of theirs, however, was attended with very serious 

1 A Hindu title much used in England in Goldsmith’s time, when the 
English army was conquering India. It means here a person who has gained 
great wealth in India and who lives in Eastern splendor and luxury. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


67 

effects ; we now began to think ourselves designed by the stars to 
something exalted, and already anticipated our future grandeur. 

It has been a thousand times observed, and I must observe it 
once more, that the hours we pass with happy prospects in view 
are more pleasing than those crowned with fruition. In the first 
case we cook the dish to our own appetite ; in the latter, N ature 
cooks it for us. It is impossible to repeat the train of agreeable 
reveries we called up for our entertainment. We looked upon 
our fortunes as once more rising; and as the whole parish as- 
serted that the Squire was in love with my daughter, she was act- 
ually so with him ; for they persuaded her into the passion. In 
this agreeable interval, my wife had the most lucky dreams in the 
world, which she took care to tell us every morning with great 
solemnity and exactness. It was one night a coffin and cross- 
bones, — the sign of an approaching wedding ; at another time 
she imagined her daughters’ pockets filled with farthings, — a cer- 
tain sign of their being shortly stuffed with gold. The girls them- 
selves had their omens. They felt strange kisses on their lips ; 
they saw rings in the candle, purses bounded from the fire ; and 
truelove knots lurked in the bottom of every teacup. 

Towards the end of the week we received a card from the town 
ladies,^n which, with their compliments, they hoped to see all our 
family at church the Sunday following. All Saturday morning I 
could perceive, in consequence of this, my wife and daughters in 
close conference together, and now and then glancing at me with 
looks that betrayed a latent plot. To be sincere, I had strong 
suspicions that some absurd proposal was preparing for appear- 
ing with splendor the next day. In the evening they began their 
operations in a very regular manner, and my wife undertook to 
conduct the siege. After tea, when I seemed in spirits, she be- 
gan thus : “ I fancy, Charles, my dear,* we shall have a great deal 
of good company at our church to-morrow.” Perhaps we may, 
my dear,” returned I, '' though you need be under no uneasiness 
about that ; you shall have a sermon whether there be or not.” 

That is what I expect,” returned she ; '' but I think, my dear, 


68 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


we ought to appear there as decently as possible, for who knows 
what may happen? ” Your precautions,” replied I, “ are highly 
commendable. A decent behavior and appearance in church is 
what charms me. We should be devout and humble, cheerful 
and serene.” ‘"Yes,” cried she, ‘'I know that; but I mean we 
should go there in as proper a manner as possible ; not altogether 
like the scrubs^ about us.” ‘‘You are quite right, my dear,” re- 
turned I, “ and I was going to make the very same proposal. 
The proper manner of going is to go there as early as possible, 
to have time for meditation before the service begins.” “ Phoo, 
Charles!” interrupted she, “all that is very true, but not what I 
would be at. I mean we should go there genteelly. You know 
the church is two miles off, and I protest I don’t like to see my 
daughters trudging up to their pew all blowzed and red with walk- 
ing, and looking for all the world as if they had been winners at a 
race. Now, my dear, my proposal is this : there are our two plow 
horses, — the colt that has been in our family these nine years, 
and his companion. Blackberry, that has scarcely done an earthly 
thing for this month past. They are both grown fat and lazy. 
Why should they not do something as well as we? And let me 
tell you, when Moses has trimmed them a little, they will cut a 
very tolerable figure.” 

To this proposal I objected that walking would be twenty times 
more genteel than such a paltry conveyance, as Blackberry was 
wall-eyed,2 and the colt wanted a tail ; that they had never been 
broke ^ to the rein, but had a hundred vicious tricks ; and that we 
had but one saddle and pillion ^ in the whole house. All these 
objections, however, were overruled ; so that I was obliged to 
comply. The next morning I perceived them not a little busy 
in collecting such materials as might be necessary for the expedi- 
tion ; but, as I found it would be a business of time, I walked on 

1 Those who work hard and live meanly. 

2 With white or light-colored eyes. 

3 Old form of “ broken.” 

4 A cushion upon which women rode on horseback behind another rider. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 69 

to the church before, and they promised speedily to follow. I 
waited near an hour in the reading desk for their arrival ; but not 
finding them come as expected, I was obliged to begin, and went 
through the service, not without some uneasiness at finding them 
absent. This was increased when all was finished, and no ap- 
pearance of the family. I therefore walked back by the horse 
way, which was five miles round, though the footway was but 
two ; and when I got about halfway home, perceived the proces- 
sion marching slowly forward towards the church, — my son, my 
wife, and the two little ones exalted on one horse, and my two 
daughters upon the other. 1 demanded the cause of their delay ; 
but I soon found by their looks they had met with a thousand 
misfortunes on the road. The horses had at first refused to move 
from the door, till Mr. Burchell was kind enough to beat them 
forward for about two hundred yards with his cudgel. N ext, the 
straps of my wife’s pillion broke down, and they were obliged to 
stop to repair them before they could proceed. After that, one 
of the horses took it into his head to stand still, and neither blows 
nor entreaties could, prevail with him to proceed. It was just 
recovering from this dismal situation, that I found them ; but 
perceiving everything safe, I own their present mortification did 
not much displease me, as it would give me many opportunities of 
future triumph, and teach my daughters more humility. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE FAMILY STILL RESOLVE TO HOLD UP THEIR HEADS. 

M ichaelmas eve happening on the next day, we were 
invited to burn nuts and play tricks at neighbor Flam- 
borough’s. Our late mortifications had humbled us a little, or it 
is probable we might have rejected such an invitation with con- 
tempt ; however, we suffered ourselves to be happy. Our honest 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


;o 

neighbor’s goose and dumplings were fine, and the lamb’s wool,^ 
even in the opinion of my wife, who was a connoisseur, was ex- 
cellent. It is true, his manner of telling stories was not quite so 
well.2 They were very long, and very dull, and about himself, 
and we had laughed at them ten times before ; however, we were 
kind enough to laugh at them once more. 

Mr. Burchell, who was of the party, was always fond of seeing 
some innocent amusement going forward, and set the boys and 
girls to blindman’s buff. My wife, too, was persuaded to join in 
the diversion, and it gave me pleasure to think she was not yet 
too old. In the mean time, my neighbor and I looked on, 
laughed at every feat, and praised our own dexterity when we 
were young. Hotcockles^ succeeded next, questions and com- 
mands followed that, and last of all they sat down to hunt the 
slipper. As every person may not be acquainted with this 
primeval pastime, it may be necessary to observe that the com- 
pany at this play plant themselves in a ring upon the ground, all 
except one who stands in the middle, whose business it is to 
catch a shoe which the company shove .about from one to 
another, something like a weaver’s shuttle. As it is impossible, 
in this case, for the lady who is up to face all the company at 
once, the great beauty of the play lies in hitting her a thump with 
the shoe. It was in this manner that my eldest daughter was 
hemmed in and thumped about, all blowzed, in spirits, and bawl- 
ing for fair play with a voice that might deafen a ballad singer, 
when, confusion on confusion! who should enter the room but 
our two great acquaintances from town. Lady Blarney and Miss 
Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs! Description would but 
beggar, therefore it is unnecessary to describe this new mortifi- 
cation. Death! to be seen by ladies of such high breeding in 

1 ** Lamb’s wool,” i.e., a mixture of ale and sugar, nutmeg, and the pulp 
of roasted apples. 

2 “ Good ” would be more grammatical. 

3 A game in which one kneels, and blinding his eyes, lays his head in an- 
other’s lap and guesses who strikes him. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


71 


such vulgar attitudes! Nothing better could ensue from such 
a vulgar play of Mr. Flamborough’s proposing. We seemed 
struck to the ground for some time, as if actually petrified with 
amazement. 

The two ladies had been at our house to see us, and finding 
us from home, came after us hither, as they were uneasy to know 
what accident could have kept us from church the day before. 
Olivia undertook to be our prolocutor, and delivered the whole in 
a summary way, only saying, “We were thrown from our horses 
at which account the ladies were greatly concerned ; but being 
told the family received no hurt, they were extremely glad ; but 
being informed that we were almost killed by the fright, they 
were vastly sorry; but hearing that we had a very good night, 
they were extremely glad again. Nothing could exceed their 
complaisance to my daughters ; their professions the last evening 
were warm, but now they were ardent. They protested a desire 
of having a more lasting acquaintance. Lady Blarney was par- 
ticularly attached to Olivia ; Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia 
Skeggs (I love to give the whole name) took a greater fancy to 
her sister. They supported the conversation between themselves, 
while my daughters sat silent, admiring their exalted breeding. 
But as every reader, however beggarly himself, is fond of high- 
lived dialogues, with anecdotes of lords, ladies, and Knights of 
the Garter, I must beg leave to give him the concluding part of 
the present conversation. 

“All that I know of the matter,” cried Miss Skeggs, “is this, 
that it may be true, or it may not be true ; but this I can assure 
your ladyship, that the rout ^ was in amaze ; his lordship turned 
all manner of colors, my lady fell into a swoon, but Sir Tomkyn, 
drawing his sword, swore he was hers to the last drop of his 
blood.” 

“ Well,” replied our peeress, “ this I can say, that the duchess 
never told me a syllable of the matter, and I believe her grace 
would keep nothing a secret from me. This you may depend 
1 An old name for a fashionable evening party. 


72 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 


upon as a fact, that the next day my lord duke cried out three 
times to his valet de chambre^^ ‘ Jernigan, Jernigan, Jernigan, bring 
me my garters.’ ” 

But previously I should have mentioned the very impolite be- 
havior of Mr. Burchell, who during this discourse sat with his face 
turned to the fire, and at the conclusion of every sentence would 
cry out “ Fudge ! ” — an expression which displeased us all, and 
in some measure damped the rising spirit of the conversation. 

Besides, my dear Skeggs,” continued our peeress, '' there is 
nothing of this in the copy of verses that Dr. Burdock made upon 
the occasion.” ('‘Fudge!”) 

“ I am surprised at that,” cried Miss Skeggs ; " for he sel- 
dom leaves anything out, as he writes only for his own amuse- 
ment. But can your ladyship favor me with a sight of them ? ” 
(" Fudge !”) 

“ My dear creature,” replied oUr peeress, " do you think I carry 
such things about me? Though they are very fine, to be sure, 
and I think myself something of a judge ; at least I know what 
pleases myself. Indeed, I was ever an admirer of all Dr. Bur- 
dock’s little pieces; for, except what he does, and our dear 
countess at Hanover Square, there’s nothing comes out but the 
most lowest stuff in nature; not a bit of high life among 
them.” ("Fudge !”) 

" Your ladyship should except,” says t’other, " your own things 
in the ‘ Lady’s Magazine.’ I hope you’ll say there’s nothing low- 
lived there ? But I suppose we are to have no more from that 
quarter? ” (" Fudge I ”) 

"Why, my dear,” says the lady, "you know my reader and 
companion has left me, to be married to Captain Roach ; and 
as my poor eyes won’t suffer me to write myself, I have been for 
some time looking out for another. A proper person is no easy 
matter to find, and, to be sure, thirty pounds a year is a small 
stipend for a well-bred girl of character, that can read, write, and 

1 An expression from the French denoting a body servant or personal 
attendant. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 73 

behave in company; as for the chits about town, there is no 
bearing them about one.” (“ Fudge ! ”) 

“That I know,” cried Miss Skeggs, “by experience. For of 
the three companions I had this last half year, one of them refused 
to do plain work an hour in a day ; another thought twenty-five 
guineas a year too small a salary ; and I was obliged to send 
away the third because I suspected an intrigue. Honor, my 
dear Lady Blarney, honor is worth any price ; but where is that 
to be found? ” (“ Fudge ! ”) 

My wife had been for a long time all attention to this dis- 
course, but was particularly struck with the latter part of it. 
Thirty pounds and twenty-five guineas a year made fifty-six 
pounds five shillings English money, all which was in a manner 
going a-begging, and might easily be secured in the family. She 
for a moment studied my looks for approbation ; and, to own a 
truth, I was of opinion that two such places would fit our two 
daughters exactly. Besides, if the Squire had any real affection 
for my eldest daughter, this would be the way to make her every 
way qualified for her fortune. My wife, therefore, was resolved 
that we should not be deprived of such advantages for want of 
assurance, and undertook to harangue for the family. “ I hope,” 
cried she, “ your ladyships will pardon my present presumption. 
It is true, we have no right to pretend to such favors; but yet it 
is natural for me to wish putting my children forward in the world. 
And I will be bold to say my two girls have had a pretty good 
education and capacity ; at least the country can’t show better. 
They can read, write, and cast accounts ; they understand their 
needle, — broad stitch, cross and change, and all manner of plain 
work; they can pink, point, and frill, and know something of 
music ; they can do up small clothes ; work upon catgut ; my 
eldest can cut paper, and my youngest has a very pretty manner 
of telling fortunes upon the cards.” (“ Fudge! ”) 

When she had delivered this pretty piece of eloquence, the two 
ladies looked at each other a few minutes in silence, with an air 
of doubt and importance. At last Miss Carolina Wilhelmina 


/ 


74 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 

Amelia Skeggs condescended to observe that the young ladies, 
from the opinion she could form of them from so slight an ac- 
quaintance, seemed very fit for such employments ; “ but a thing 
of this kind, madam,” cried she, addressing my spouse, “ requires 
a thorough examination into characters, and a more perfect knowl- 
edge of each other. Not, m3,dam,” continued she, “ that I in the 
least suspect the young ladies’ prudence and discretion ; but there 
is a form in those things, madam, there is a form.” 

My wife approved her suspicions very much, observing that 
she was very apt to be suspicious herself, but referred her to all 
the neighbors for a character; but this our peeress declined as 
unnecessary, alleging that her cousin Thornhill’s recommenda- 
tion would be sufficient ; and upon this we rested our petition. 


CHAPTER XII. 

FORTUNE SEEMS RESOLVED TO HUMBLE THE FAMILY. OF "WAKEFIELD. 
MORTIFICATIONS ARE OFTEN MORE PAINFUL THAN REAL CALAMITIES. 

W HEN we were returned home, the night was dedicated 
to schemes of future conquest. Deborah exerted much 
sagacity in conjecturing which of the two girls was likely to have 
the best place, and most opportunities of seeing good company. 
The only obstacle to our preferment was in obtaining the Squire’s 
recommendation ; but he had already shown us too many in- 
stances of his friendship to doubt of it now. * Even in bed my 
wife kept up the usual theme. Well, faith, my dear Charles, 
between ourselves, I think we have made an excellent day’s work 
of it.” Pretty well,” cried I, not knowing what to say. 

What ! only pretty well ! ” returned she. “ I think it is very 
well. Suppose the girls should come to make acquaintances of 
taste in town ! This I am assured of, that London is the only 
place in the world for all manner of husbands. Besides, my dear. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


75 


stranger things happen every day ; and as ladies of quality are 
so taken with my daughters, what will not men of quality be ? 
Entre nous,^ I protest I like my Lady Blarney vastly,- — so very 
obliging. However, Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs 
has my warm heart. But yet, when they came to talk of places 
in town, you saw at once how I nailed them. Tell me, my dear, 
don’t you think I did for my children there ? ” Ay,” returned 
I, not knowing well what to think of the matter. “ Heaven 
grant they may be both the better for it this day three months ! ” 
This was one of those observations I usually made to impress my 
wife with an opinion of my sagacity ; for if the girls succeeded, 
then it was a pious wish fulfilled ; but if anything unfortunate en- 
sued, then it might be looked upon as a prophecy. All this con- 
versation, however, was only preparatory to another scheme, and 
indeed I dreaded as much. This was nothing less than that, as 
we were now to hold up our heads a little higher in the world, it 
would be proper to sell the colt, which was grown old, at a neigh- 
boring fair,*'^ and buy us a horse that would carry single or double 
upon an occasion, and make a pretty appearance at church or 
upon a visit. This at first I opposed stoutly; but it was as 
stoutly defended. However, as I weakened, my antagonists 
gained strength, till at last it was resolved to part with him. 

As the fair happened on the following day, I had intentions 
of going myself ; but my wife persuaded me that I had got a 
cold, and nothing could prevail upon her to permit me from 
home. ‘^No, my dear,” said she; “our son Moses is a discreet 
boy, and can buy and sell to a very good advantage ; you know 
all our great bargains are of his purchasing. He always stands 
out and higgles, and actually tires them till he gets a bargain.” 

1 French for between ourselves.” 

2 It is easy to see that local fairs were often held, and were of consider- 
able importance before railways gave speedier communication and became a 
great carrying power. Fairs served as a market and were necessary for the 
interchange of commodities. In England they were controlled by law, and 
generally set for saints’ days. 


76 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


As I had some opinion of my son’s prudence, I was willing 
enough to intrust him with this commission ; and the next morn- 
ing I perceived his sisters mighty busy in fitting out Moses for 
the fair, — trimming his hair, brushing his buckles, and cocking 
his hat with pins. The business of the toilet being over, we had 
at last the satisfaction of seeing him mounted upon the colt, with 
a deal box before him to bring home groceries in. He had on 
a coat made of that cloth they call “ thunder-and-lightning,” 
which, though grown too short, was much too good to be thrown 
away. His waistcoat was of gosling green, and his sisters had 
tied his hair with a broad black ribbon. i We all followed him 
several paces from the door, bawling after him “Good luck! 
Good luck! ” till we could see him no longer. 

He was scarcely gone when Mr. Thornhill’s butler came to 
congratulate us upon our good fortune, saying that he over- 
heard his young master mention our names with great com- 
mendation. 

Good fortune seemed resolved not to come alone. Another 
footman from the same family followed, with a card for my 
daughters, importing that the two ladies had received such pleas- 
ing accounts from Mr. Thornhill of us all that, after a few previ- 
ous inquiries, they hoped to be perfectly satisfied. “ Ay,” cried 
my wife, “ I now see it is no easy matter to get into the families 
of the great ; but when one once gets in, then, as Moses says, one 
may go to sleep.” To this piece of humor — for she intended it 
for wit — my daughters assented with a loud laugh of pleasure. 
In short, such was her satisfaction at this message that she actually 
put her hand in her pocket and gave the messenger sevenpence 
halfpenny. 

This was to be our visiting day. The next that came was Mr. 
Burchell, who had been at the fair. He brought my little ones 
a pennyworth of gingerbread each, which my wife undertook to 

1 In the last half of the eighteenth century, men who did not keep to the 
old-fashioned wig, tied the hair behind in a queue, or incased it in an orna- 
mental silk bag. 


THE VICAR OF .WAKEFIELD, 


77 


keep for them, and give them by letters ^ at a time. He brought 
my daughters, also, a couple of boxes, in which they might keep 
wafers, snuff, patches, or even money (when they got it). My 
wife was usually fond of a weasel-skin purse, as being the most 
lucky ; but this by the bye.^ We had still a regard for Mr. Bur- 
chell, though his late rude behavior was in some measure dis- 
pleasing ; nor could we now avoid communicating our happiness 
to him, and asking his advice; although we seldom followect 
advice, we were all ready enough to ask it. When he read the note 
from the two ladies he shook his head, and observed that an 
affair of this sort demanded the utmost circumspection. This air 
of diffidence highly displeased my wife. “ I never doubted, sir,” 
cried she, “ your readiness to be against my daughters and me. 
You have more circumspection than is wanted. However, I 
fancy when we come to ask advice, we will apply to persons who 
seem to have made use of it themselves.” “ Whatever my own 
conduct may have been, madam,” replied he, "‘is not the present 
question; though as I have made no use of advice myself, I 
should in conscience give it to those that will.” As I was ap- 
prehensive this answer might draw on a repartee, making up by 
abuse what it wanted in wit, I changed the subject by seeming 
to wonder what could keep our son so long at the fair, as it was 
now almost nightfall. “Never mind our son,” cried my wife; 
“ depend upon it he knows what he is about. I’ll warrant we’ll 
never see him sell his hen of a rainy day. I have seen him buy 
such bargains as would amaze one. I’ll tell you a good story 
about that that will make you split your sides with laughing. 
But as I live, yonder comes Moses, without a horse, and the box 
at his back.” 

As she spoke Moses came slowly on foot, and sweating under 
the deal box, which he had strapped round his shoulders like a 
peddler. “ Welcome, welcome, Moses ; well, my boy, what have 

1 Gingerbread is still cut r ut in letters, and, as this may have been made, 
in large cakes with letters stamped upon the top. 

2 “ By the bye,” i.e., by the way; in passing. 


78 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


you brought us from the fair ? ” ‘'I hive brought you myself,” 

cried Moses, with a sly look, and resting the box on the dresser. 
“ Ah, Moses,” cried my wife, “ that we know ; but where is the 
horse ? ” “I have sold him,” cried Moses, “ for three pounds 
five shillings and twopence.” ‘‘Well done, my good boy,” re- 
turned she ; “ I knew you would touch them off. Between our- 
selves, three pounds five shillings and twopence is no bad day’s 
work. Come, let us have it, then.” “ I have brought back no 
money,” cried Moses again. “ I have laid it all out on a bar- 
gain, and here it is,” pulling out a bundle from his breast ; “ here 
they are, — a gross of green spectacles with silver rims and 
shagreen i cases.” “ A gross of green, spectacles ! ” repeated my 
wife, in a faint voice. “ And you have parted with the colt, and 
brought us back nothing but a gross of green, paltry spectacles ! ” 
“ Dear mother,” cried the boy, “why won’t you listen to reason ? 
I had them a dead bargain, or I should not have bought them. 
The silver rims alone will sell for double the money.” “ A fig for 
the silver rims! ” cried my wife, in a passion ; “ I dare swear they 
won’t sell for above half the money at the rate of broken silver, 
five shillings an ounce.” “You need be under no uneasiness,” 
cried I, “ about selling the rims, for they are not worth sixpence ; 
for I perceive they are only copper varnished over.” “What,” 
cried my wife, “not silver 1 the rims not silver !” “ No,” cried 

I, “no more silver than your saucepan.” “And so,” returned 
she, “ we have parted with the colt, and have only got a gross of 
green spectacles with copper rims and shagreen cases! A mur- 
rain ^ take such trumpery! The blockhead has been imposed 
upon, and should have known his company better.” “ There, 
my dear,” cried I, “ you are wrong ; he should not have known 
them at all.” “ Marry hang the idiot,” returned she, “ to bring 
me such stuff ; if I had them I would throw them in the fire.” 
“There again you are wrong, my dear,” cried I; “for though 

1 A leather with a granular surface. 

2 Plague. 

3 Indeed; f 9 rsooth; a variant of “ Mary.” 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


79 


they be copper, we will keep them by us, .as copper spectacles, 
you know, are better than nothing.” 

By this time the unfortunate Moses was undeceived. He now 
saw that he had been imposed upon by a prowling sharper, who, 
observing his figure, had marked him for an easy prey. I there- 
fore asked the circumstances of his deception. He sold the horse, 
it seems, and walked the fair in search of another. A reverend- 
looking man brought him to a tent, under a pretense of having 
one to sell. “ Here,” continued Moses, “ we met another man, 
very well dressed, who desired to borrow twenty pounds upon 
these, saying that he wanted money, and would dispose of them 
for a third of their value. The first gentleman, who pretended to 
be my friend, whispered me to buy them, and cautioned me not 
to let so good an offer pass. I sent for Mr. Flamborough, and 
they talked him up as finely as they did me, and so at last we 
were persuaded to buy the two gross between us.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


MR. BURCHELL IS FOUND TO BE AN ENEMY; FOR HE HAS THE CONFI- 
DENCE TO GIVE DISAGREEABLE ADVICE. 

UR family had now made several attempts to be fine, but 



V_y some unforeseen disaster demolished each as soon as pro- 
jected. I endeavored to take the advantage of every disap- 
pointment to improve their good sense in proportion as they 
were frustrated in ambition. ^^You see, my children,” cried I, 
‘'how little is to be got by attempts to impose upon the world 
in coping with our betters. Such as are poor, and will associate 
with none but the rich, are hated by those they avoid, and de- 
spised by those they follow. Unequal combinations are always 
disadvantageous to the weaker side, the rich having the pleas- 
ure, and the poor the inconveniences that result from them. But 


8o 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


come, Dick, my boy,, and repeat the fable that you were reading 
to-day, for the good of the company.” 

“Once upon a time,” cried the child, “a giant and a dwarf 
were friends and kept together. They made a bargain that they 
would never forsake each other, but go seek adventures. The 
first battle they fought was with two Saracens, and the dwarf, 
who was very courageous, dealt one of the champions a most 
angry blow. It did the Saracen very little injury, who, lifting up 
his sword, fairly struck off the poor dwarfs arm. He was now 
in a woeful plight; but the giant, coming to his assistance, in 
a short time left the two Saracens dead on the plain, and the 
dwarf cut off the dead man’s head out of spite. They then 
traveled on to another adventure. This was against three bloody- 
minded satyrs, who were carrying away a damsel in distress. 
The dwarf was not quite so fierce now as before ; but, for all 
that, struck the first blow, which was returned by another, that 
knocked out his eye ; but the giant was soon up with them, and 
had they not fled, would certainly have killed them every one. 
They were all very joyful for this victory, and the damsel who 
was relieved fell in love with the giant, and married 'him. They 
now traveled far, and farther than I can tell, till they met with a 
company of robbers. The giant, for the first time, was foremost 
now; but the dwarf was not far behind. The battle was stout 
and long. Wherever the giant came, all fell before him ; but the 
dwarf had like to have been killed more than once. At last the 
victory declared for the two adventurers ; but the dwarf lost his 
leg. The dwarf was now without an arm, a leg, and an eye, 
while the giant was without a single wound. Upon which he cried 
out to his little companion, “My little hero, this is glorious sport! 
let us get one victory more, and then we shall have honor forever.’ 
' No,’ cries the dwarf, who was by this time grown wiser, ‘no, I 
declare off ; I’ll fight no more ; for I find in every battle that you 
get all the honor and rewards, but all the blows fall upon me.’ ” 

I was going to moralize this fable, when our attention was 
called off to a warm dispute between my wife and Mr. Burchell 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 


8i 


upon my daughters’ intended expedition to town. My wife very 
strenuously insisted upon the advantages that would result from 
it ; Mr. Burchell, on the contrary, dissuaded her with great ardor, 
and I stood neuter.^ His present dissuasions seemed but the 
second part of those which were received with so ill a grace in 
the morning. The dispute grew high, while poor Deborah, in- 
stead of reasoning stronger, talked louder, and at last was obliged 
to take shelter from a defeat in clamor. The conclusion of her 
harangue, however, was highly displeasing to us all. She knew, 
she said, of some who had their own secret reasons for what they 
advised ; but, for her part, she wished such to stay from her 
house for the future. Madam,” cried Burchell, with looks of 
great composure, which tended to inflame her more, ‘'as for 
secret reasons, you are right ; I have secret reasons, which I for- 
bear to mention, because you are not able to answer those of 
which I make no secret. But I find my visits here are become 
troublesome ; I’ll take my leave, therefore, now, and perhaps 
come once more to take a final farewell when I am quitting the 
country.” Thus saying, he took up his hat; nor could the at- 
tempts of Sophia, whose looks seemed to upbraid his precipitancy, 
prevent his going. 

When gone, we all regarded each other for some minutes with 
confusion. My wife, who knew herself to be the cause, strove 
to hide her concern with a forced smile and an air of assurance, 
which I was willing to reprove. “ How, woman ! ” cried I to her ; 
“is it thus we treat strangers ? Is it thus we return their kind- 
ness ? Be assured, my dear, that these were the harshest words, 
and to me the most unpleasing, that ever escaped your lips ! ” 
“ Why would he provoke me, then ? ” replied she ; “ but I know 
the motives of his advice perfectly well. He would prevent my 
girls from going to town, that he may have the pleasure of my 
youngest daughter’s company here at home. But whatever 
happens, she shall choose better company than such low-lived 
fellows as he.” “ Low-lived, my dear, do you call him ? ” cried 


6 


1 Neutral. 


82 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


I ; ‘'it is very possible we may mistake this man’s character, for 
he seems upon some occasions the most finished gentleman I ever 
knew. — Tell me, Sophia, my girl, has he ever given you any 
secret instances of his attachment ? ” “ His conversation with 

me, sir,” replied my daughter, “ has ever been sensible, modest, 
and pleasing. As to aught else, no, never. Once, indeed, I re- 
member to have heard him say he never knew a woman who 
could find merit in a man that seemed poor.” “ Such, my dear,” 
cried I, “ is the common cant of all the unfortunate or idle. But 
I hope you have been taught to judge properly of such men, and 
that it would be even madness to expect happiness from one who 
has been so very bad an economist of his own. Your mother 
and I have now better prospects for you. The next winter, which 
you will probably spend in town, will give you opportunities of 
making a more prudent choice.” 

What Sophia’s reflections were upon this occasion I can’t pre- 
tend to determine ; but I was not displeased at the bottom that 
we were rid of a guest from whom I had much to fear. Our 
breach of hospitality went to my conscience a little ; but I 
quickly silenced that monitor by two or three specious reasons, 
which served to satisfy and reconcile me to myself. The pain 
which conscience gives the man who has already done wrong is 
soon got over. Conscience is a coward, and those faults it has 
not strength enough to prevent it seldom has justice enough to 
accuse. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

FRESH MORTIFICATIONS; OR A DEMONSTRATION THAT SEEMING CALAMI- 
TIES MAY BE REAL BLESSINGS. 

T he journey of my daughters to town was now resolved upon, 
Mr. Thornhill having kindly promised to inspect their con- 
duct himself, and inform us by letter of their behavior. But it 
was thought indispensably necessary that their appearance should 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 83 

equal the greatness of their expectations, which could not be 
done without expense. We debated, therefore, in full council 
what were the easiest methods of raising money ; or, more properly 
speaking, what we could most conveniently sell. The delibera- 
tion was soon finished. It was found that our remaining horse was 
utterly useless for the plow without his companion, and equally 
unfit for the road, as wanting an eye; it was therefore deter- 
mined that we should dispose of him, for the purposes above 
mentioned, at the neighboring fair, and, to prevent imposition, 
that I should go with him myself. Though this was one of the 
first mercantile transactions of my life, yet I had no doubt about 
acquitting myself with reputation.^ The opinion a man forms of 
his own prudence is measured by that of the company he keeps ; 
and as mine was mostly in the family way, I had conceived no 
unfavorable sentiments of my worldly wisdom. My wife, how- 
ever, next morning, at parting, after I had got some paces from 
the door, called me back, to advise me, in a whisper, to have all 
my eyes about me. 

I had, in the usual forms, when I came to the fair, put my 
horse through all his paces ; but for some time had no bidders. 
At last a chapman 2 approached, and after he had for a good 
while examined the horse round, finding him blind of one eye, he 
would have nothing to say to him ; a second came up, but ob- 
serving he had a spavin, declared he would not take him for the 
driving home; a third perceived he had a windgall, and would 
bid no money ; a fourth knew by his eye that he had the bots ; 
a fifth wondered what the plague I could do at the fair with a 
blind, spavined, galled hack, that was only fit to be cut up for a 
dog kennel. By this time I began to have a most hearty con- 
tempt for the poor animal myself, and was almost ashamed at 
the approach of every customer; for though I did not entirely 
believe all the fellows told me, yet I reflected that the number 
of witnesses was a strong presumption they were right; and 


1 Credit. 


2 Trader; peddler. 


84 OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 

St. Gregory, upon ‘‘ Good Works,” ^ professes himself to be of the 
same opinion. 

I was in this mortifying situation when a brother clergyman, 
an old acquaintance, who had also business at the fair, came up, 
and. shaking me by the hand, proposed adjourning to a public 
house, and taking a glass of whatever we could get. I readily 
closed with the offer, and entering an alehouse, we were shown 
into a little back room, where there was only a venerable old 
man, who sat wholly intent over a large book which he was 
reading. I never in my life saw a figure that prepossessed me 
more favorably. His locks of silver gray venerably shaded his 
temples, and his green old age seemed to be the result of health 
and benevolence. However, his presence did not interrupt our 
conversation. My friend and I discoursed on the various turns 
of fortune we had met, — the Whistonian controversy, my last 
pamphlet, the archdeacon’s reply, and the hard measure that 
was dealt me. But our attention was in a short time taken off 
by the appearance of a youth, who, entering the room, respect- 
fully said something softly to the old stranger. Make no 
apologies, my child,” said the old man ; “ to do good is a duty 
we owe to all our fellow-creatures; take this; I wish it were 
more, but five pounds will relieve your distress, and you are wel- 
come.” The modest youth shed tears of gratitude, and yet his 
gratitude was scarcely equal to mine. I could have hugged the 
good old man in my arms, his benevolence pleased me so. He 
continued to read, and we resumed our conversation, until my 
companion, after some time, recollecting that he had some busi- 
ness to transact in the fair, promised to be soon back, adding that 
he always desired to have as much of Dr. Primrose’s company 
as possible. The old gentleman, hearing my name mentioned, 

1 It is impossible to tell to which St. Gregory the Good Works belongs. 
Gregory the Great (540-604) wrote a book to which the title might be re- 
ferred; and Gregory of Nyssa (born 331) also left homiletic works which 
Goldsmith in this passage may have had in mind. The book was doubtless, 
from his manner of referring to it, a familiar one with Dr. Goldsmith. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 85 

seemed to look at me with attention for some time, and when my 
friend was gone most respectfully demanded if I was any way 
related to the great Primrose, that courageous monogamist, who 
had been the bulwark of the Church. Never did my heart feel 
sincerer rapture than at that moment. “ Sir,” cried I, “ the ap- 
plause of so good a man as I am sure you are, adds to that hap- 
piness in my breast which your benevolence has already excited. 
You behold before you, sir, that Dr. Primrose, the monogamist, 
whom you have been pleased to call great. You here see that 
unfortunate divine, who has so long, and it would ill become me 
to say successfully, fought against the deuterogamy ^ of the age.” 
'' Sir,” cried the stranger, struck with awe, “ I fear I have been 
too familiar ; but you’ll forgive my curiosity, sir ; I beg pardon.” 
“ Sir,” cried I, grasping his hand, '‘you are so far from displeas- 
ing me by your familiarity that I must beg you’ll accept my 
friendship, as you already have my esteem.” “ Then with grati- 
tude I accept the offer,” cried he, squeezing me by the hand, 
“ thou glorious pillar of unshaken orthodoxy ! and do I be- 
hold” — I here interrupted what he was going to say; for 
though, as an author, I could digest no small share of flattery, 
yet now my modesty would permit no more. However, no 
lovers in romance ever cemented a more instantaneous friend- 
ship. We talked upon several subjects. At first I thought he 
seemed rather devout than learned, and began to think he de- 
spised all human doctrines as dross ; yet this no way lessened 
him in my esteem, for I had for some time begun privately to 
harbor such an opinion myself. I therefore took occasion to 
observe that the world in general began to be blamably indiffer- 
ent as to doctrinal matters, and followed human speculations too 
much. “ Ay, sir,” replied he, as if he had reserved all his learn- 
ing to that moment, — “ay, sir, the world is in its dotage ; and yet 
the cosmogony or creation of the world has puzzled philosophers 
of all ages. What a medley of opinions have they not broached 

1 The custom of contracting second marriages after the death of the first 
husband or wife. 


86 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 


upon the creation of the world ! Sanchoniathon, Manetho, 
Berosus, and Ocellus Lucanus^ have all attempted it in vain. 
The latter has these words : 'Atiarchon ara kai atehitami to pan^ 2 
which imply that all things have neither beginning nor end. 
Manetho also, who lived about the time of Nebuchadon- 
Asser, — Asser being a Syriac word usually applied as a sur- 
name to the kings of that country, as Teglat Phael- Asser, Nabon- 
Asser, — he, I say, formed a conjecture equally absurd; for, as 
we usually say ‘ Ek to biblion kubernetes^ 2 which implies that 
books will never teach the world, so he attempted to investigate 
— but, sir, I ask pardon ; I am straying from the question.” That 
he actually was ; nor could I for my life see how the creation of 
the world had anything to do with the business I was talking of ; 
but it was sufficient to show me that he was a man of letters, 
and I now reverenced him the more. I was resolved, therefore, 
to bring him to the touchstone;^ but he was too mild and too 
gentle to contend for victory. Whenever I made an observa- 
tion that looked like a challenge to controversy, he would smile, 
shake his head, and say nothing ; by which I understood he 
could say much if he thought proper. The subject, therefore, 
insensibly changed from the business of antiquity to that which 
brought us both to the fair. Mine, I told him, was to sell a horse ; 
and very luckily indeed, his was to buy one for one of his tenants. 
My horse was soon produced, and, in fine, we struck a bargain. 
Nothing now remained but to pay me, and he accordingly pulled 
out a thirty-pound note, and bid me change it. Not being in a 
capacity of complying with this demand, he ordered his footman 
to be called up, who made his appearance in a very genteel livery. 

1 This is an absurd piling up of strange names. The first belonged to a 
Phoenician historian who lived two or three hundred years before Christ ; the 
second, to an Egyptian wise man ; the third, to a Chaldean historian of the 
time of Alexander the Great ; and the last, to a Greek philosopher of the first 
century of our era. 2 ^ Greek phrase. 

3 A fine-grained jasper upon which the alloy of precious metals was rubbed 
and tested. In this sentence the word means test. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. »7 

Here, Abraham,” cried he, go and get gold for this ; you’ll 
do it at neighbor Jackson’s or anywhere.” While the fellow was 
gone, he entertained me with a pathetic harangue on the great 
scarcity of silver, which I undertook to improve by deploring 
also the great scarcity of gold ; so that by the time Abraham re- 
turned, we had both agreed that money was never so hard to be 
come at as now. Abraham returned to inform us that he had 
been over the whole fair, and could not get change, though he 
had offered half a crown for doing it. This was a very great 
disappointment to us all ; but the old gentleman, having paused 
a little, asked me if I knew one Solomon Flamborough in my 
part of the country. Upon replying that he was my next-door 
neighbor, “ If that be the case, then,” returned he, “ I believe we 
shall deal. You shall have a draft upon him, payable at sight; 
and let me tell you, he is as warm a man as any within five miles 
round him. Honest Solomon and I have been acquainted many 
years together. I remember I always beat him at three jumps ; 
but he could hop on one leg farther than I.” A draft upon my 
neighbor was to me the same as money ; for I was sufficiently con- 
vinced of his ability. The draft was signed and put into my hands, 
and Mr. Jenkinson, the old gentleman, his man Abraham, and my 
horse, old Blackberry, trotted off very well pleased with each other. 

After a short interval, being left to reflection, I began to recol- 
lect that I had done wrong in taking a draft from a stranger, and 
so prudently resolved upon following the purchaser and having 
back my horse. But this was now too late. I therefore made 
directly homewards, resolving to get the draft changed into 
money at my friend’s as fast as possible. I found my honest 
neighbor smoking his pipe at his own door, and informing him 
that I had a small bill upon him, he read it twice over. “You 
can read the name, I suppose,” cried I ; “ Ephraim Jenkinson.” 
“Yes,” returned he, “the name is written plain enough, and I 
know the gentleman too, — the greatest rascal under the canopy of 
heaven. This is the very same rogue who sold us the spectacles. 
Was he not a venerable-looking man, with gray hair, and no flaps 


88 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


to his pocket holes ? And did he not talk a long string of learn- 
ing about Greek and cosmogony and the world ? ” To this I 
replied with a groan. “ Ay,” continued he, “ he has but that one 
piece of learning in the world, and he always talks it away when- 
ever he finds a scholar in the company ; but I know the rogue, 
and will catch him yet.” 

Though I was already sufficiently mortified,, my greatest strug- 
gle was to come, in facing my wife and daughters. No truant was 
ever more afraid of returning to school, there to behold the mas- 
ter’s visage, than I was of going home. I was determined, how- 
ever, to anticipate their fury by first falling into a passion myself. 

But alas ! upon entering, I found the family no way disposed 
for battle. My wife and girls were all in tears, Mr. Thornhill 
having been there that day to inform them that their journey to 
town was entirely over. The two ladies, having heard reports of 
us from some malicious person about us, were that day set out 
for London. He could neither discover the tendency nor the 
author of these ; but whatever they might be, or whoever might 
have broached them, he continued to assure our family of his 
friendship and protection. I found, therefore, that they bore my 
disappointment with great resignation, as it was eclipsed in the- 
greatness of their own. But what perplexed us most was to think 
who could be so base as to asperse the character of a family so 
harmless as ours ; too humble to excite envy, and too inoffensive 
to create disgust. 


CHAPTER XV. 

ALL MR. BURCHELL’S VILLAINY AT ONCE DETECTED. THE FOLLY OF 
BEING OVERWISE. 

T hat evening, and a part of the following day, was em- 
ployed in fruitless attempts to discover our enemies. 
Scarcely a family in the neighborhood but incurred our suspi- 
cions, and each of us had reasons for our opinions best known to 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


89 


ourselves. As we were in this perplexity, one of our little boys, 
who had been playing abroad, brought in a letter case which he 
found on the green. It was quickly known to belong to Mr. 
Burchell, with whom it had been seen, and, upon examination, 
contained some hints upon different subjects. But what partic- 
ularly engaged our attention was a sealed note, superscribed, 
“ The copy of a letter to be sent to the two ladies at Thornhill 
Castle.” It instantly occurred that he was the base informer, 
and we deliberated whether the note should not be broken open. 
I was against it ; but Sophia, who said she was sure that of all 
men he would be the last to be guilty of so much baseness, in- 
sisted upon its being read. In this she was seconded by the rest 
of the family, and at their joint solicitation I read as follows: 

Ladies : The bearer will sufficiently satisfy you as to the 
person from whom this comes, — one, at least, the friend of inno- 
cence. I am informed for a truth that you have some intention 
of bringing two young ladies to town, whom I have some knowl- 
edge of, under the character of companions. As I would not 
have simplicity imposed upon, I must offer it as my opinion that 
the impropriety of such a step will be attended with dangerous 
consequences. It has never been my way to treat the infamous 
with severity ; nor should I now have taken this method of ex- 
plaining myself, or reproving folly, did it not aim at guilt. Take, 
therefore, the admonition of a friend, and seriously reflect on the 
consequences of introducing infamy and vice into retreats where 
peace and innocence have hitherto resided.” 

Our doubts were now at an end. There seemed, indeed, some- 
thing applicable to both sides in this letter, and its censures might 
as well be referred to those to whom it was written as to us ; but 
the malicious meaning was obvious, and we went no further. 
My wife had scarcely patience to hear me to the end, but railed 
at the writer with unrestrained resentment. Olivia was equally 
severe, and Sophia seemed perfectly amazed at his baseness. As 


90 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


for my part, it appeared to me one of the vilest instances of un- 
provoked ingratitude I had met with ; nor could I account for it 
in any other manner than by -imputing it to his desire of detain- 
ing my youngest daughter in the country, to have the more fre- 
quent opportunities of an interview. In this manner we all sat 
ruminating upon schemes of vengeance, when the other little boy 
came running in to tell us that Mr. Burchell was approaching at 
the other end of the field. It is easier to conceive than describe 
the complicated sensations which are felt from the pain of a 
recent injury, and the pleasure of an approaching vengeance. 
Though our intentions were only to upbraid him with his ingrati- 
tude, yet it was resolved to do it in a manner that would be per- 
fectly cutting. For this purpose we agreed to meet him with our 
usual smiles ; to chat in the beginning with more than ordinary 
kindness; to amuse him a little; and then, in the midst of the 
flattering calm, to burst upon him like an earthquake, and over- 
whelm him with a sense of his own baseness. This being resolved 
upon, my wife undertook to manage the business herself, as she 
really had some talents for such an undertaking. We saw him 
approach ; he entered, drew a chair, and sat down. “ A fine day, 
Mr. Burchell.” “A very fine day, doctor; though I fancy we 
shall have some rain by the shooting of my corns.” “ The shoot- 
ing of your horns ! ” cried my wife, in a loud fit of laughter, and 
then asked pardon for being fond of a joke. Dear madam,” 
replied he, “I pardon you with all my heart, for I protest I 
should not have* thought it a joke had you not told me.” “ Per- 
haps not, sir,” cried my wife, winking at us ; “ and yet I dare say 
you can tell us how many jokes- go to an ounce.” "I fancy, 
madam,” returned Burchell, “ you have been reading a jest book 
this morning, that ounce of jokes is so very good a conceit ; and 
yet, madam, I had rather see half an ounce of understanding.” 
'' I believe you might,” cried my wife, still smiling at us, though 
the laugh was against her ; “ and yet I have seen some men pre- 
tend to understanding that have very little.” And no doubt,” 
returned her antagonist, you have known ladies set up for wit 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


91 


that had none.” I quickly began to find that my wife was likely 
to gain but little at this business ; so I resolved to treat him in a 
style of more severity myself. “ Both wit and understanding,” 
cried I, “ are trifles without integrity ; it is that which gives value 
to every character. The ignorant peasant without fault is greater 
than the philosopher with many ; for what is genius or courage 
without a heart ? 

‘ An honest man’s the noblest work of God.*” 

I always held that hackneyed maxim of Pope,” returned Mr. 
Burchell, “ as very unworthy a man of genius, and a base deser- 
tion of his own superiority. As the reputation of books is raised, 
not by their freedom from defect, but the greatness of their 
beauties, so should that of men be prized, not for their exemp- 
tion from fault, but the size of those virtues they are possessed of. 
The scholar may want prudence, the statesman may have pride, 
and the champion ferocity ; but shall we prefer to these the low 
mechanic, who laboriously plods through life without censure or 
applause ? We might as well prefer the tame, correct paintings 
of the Flemish school to the erroneous but sublime animations of 
the Roman pencil.” 

“ Sir,” replied I, “ your present observation is just, when there 
are shining virtues and minute defects ; but when it appears that 
great vices are opposed in the same mind to as extraordinary 
virtues, such a character deserves contempt.” 

“ Perhaps,” cried he, “ there may be some such monsters as you 
describe, of great vices joined to great virtues ; yet in my progress 
through life I never yet found one instance of their existence. 
On the contrary, I have ever perceived that where the mind was 
capacious the affections were good. And, indeed. Providence 
seems kindly our friend in this particular, thus to debilitate the 
understanding where the heart is corrupt, and diminish the power 
where there is the will to do mischief. This rule seems to extend 
even to other animals ; the little vermin race are ever treacherous, 


92 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


cruel, and cowardly, while those endowed with strength and 
power are generous, brave, and gentle.” 

“ These observations sound well,” returned I, and yet it 
would be easy this moment to point out a man” — and I fixed 
my eyes steadfastly upon him — “whose head and heart form a 
most detestable contrast. Ay, sir,” continued I, raising my 
voice, “and I am glad to have this opportunity of detecting 
him in the midst of his fancied security. Do you know this, 
sir, — this pocketbook ? ” “Yes, sir,” returned he, with a face 
of impenetrable assurance, “ that pocketbook is mine, and I am 
glad you have found it.” “And do you know,” cried I, “this 
letter? Nay, never falter, man, but look me full in the face; 
I say do you know this letter ? ” “ That letter ? ” returned he ; 

“yes, it was I that wrote that letter.” “And how could you,” 
said I, “so basely, so ungratefully presume to write this letter ? ” 
“And how came you,” replied he, with looks of unparalleled 
effrontery, “ so basely to presume to break open this letter ? 
Don’t you know, now, I could hang you all for this ? ^ All that 
I have to do is to swear at the next justice’s that you have been 
guilty of breaking open the lock of my pocketbook, and so hang 
you all up at this door.” This piece of unexpected insolence 
raised me to such a pitch that I could scarcely govern my pas- 
sion. “ Ungrateful wretch ! begone, and no longer pollute my 
dwelling with thy baseness! begone, and never let me see thee 
again 1 Go from my door, and the only punishment I wish thee 
is an alarmed conscience, which will be a sufficient tormentor 1 ” 
So saying, I threw him his pocketbook, which he took up with 
a smile, and shutting the clasps with the utmost composure, left 
us quite astonished at the serenity of his assurance. My wife 
was particularly enraged that nothing could make him angry, or 
make him seem ashamed of his villainies. “ My dear,” cried I, 
willing to calm those passions that had been raised too high 
among us, “ we are not surprised that bad men want shame ; 

1 At the time this story was written — the time, also, at which Blackstone 
wrote his Commentaries — many petty crimes were punished by hanging. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


93 


they only blush at being detected in doing good, but glory in 
their vices. 

“ Guilt and Shame, says the allegory, were at first companions, 
and in the beginning of their journey inseparably kept together. 
But their union was soon found to be disagreeable and inconven- 
ient to both. Guilt gave Shame frequent uneasiness, and Shame 
often betrayed the secret conspiracies of Guilt. After long dis- 
agreement, therefore, they at length consented to part forever. 
Guilt boldly walked forward alone to overtake Fate, that went 
before in the shape of an executioner ; but Shame, being naturally 
timorous, returned back to keep company with Virtue, which in 
the beginning of their journey they had left behind. Thus, my 
children, after men have traveled through a few stages in vice, 
shame forsakes them, and returns back to wait upon the few 
virtues they have still remaining.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 


THE FAMILY USE ART, WHICH IS OPPOSED WITH S^ILL GREATER. 


HATEVER might have b^en Sophia’s sensations, the rest 



V V of the family was easily consoled for Mr. Burchell’s absence 
by the company of our landlord, whose visits now became more 
frequent, and longer. Though he had been disappointed in pro- 
curing my daughters the amusements of the town as he designed, 
he took every opportunity of supplying them with those little 
recreations which our retirement would admit of. He usually 
came in the morning, and while my son and I followed our oc- 
cupations abroad, he sat with the family at home, and amused 
them by describing the town, with every part of which he was 
particularly acquainted. He could repeat all the observations 
that were retailed in the atmosphere of the playhouses, and had 
all the good things of the high wits by rote, long before they made 


94 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 


their way into the jest books. The intervals between conversa- 
tion were employed in teaching my daughters piquet, i or some- 
times in setting my two little ones to box, to make them “ sharp,” 
as he called it ; but the hopes of having him for a son-in-law in 
some measure blinded us to all his imperfections. It must be 
owned that my wife laid a thousand schemes to entrap him ; or, 
to speak more tenderly, used every art to magnify the merit of 
her daughter. If the cakes at tea eat ^ short and crisp, they were 
made by Olivia ; if the gooseberry wine was well knit, the goose- 
berries were of her gathering ; it was her fingers which gave the 
pickles their peculiar green ; and in the composition of a pudding 
it was her judgment that mixed the ingredients. Then the poor 
woman would sometimes tell the Squire that she thought him and 
Olivia extremely of a size, and would bid both stand up to see 
which was tallest. These instances of cunning, which she thought 
impenetrable, yet which everybody saw through, were very pleas- 
ing to our benefactor, who gave every day some new proofs of 
his passion, which, though they had not arisen to proposals of 
marriage, yet we thought feU but little short of it ; and his slow- 
ness was attributed sometimes to native bashfulness, and some- 
times to the fear of offending his uncle. An occurrence, however, 
which happened soon after, put beyond a doubt that he designed 
to become one of our family ; my wife even regarded it as an 
absolute promise. 

My wife and daughters, happening to return a visit to neighbor 
Flamborough’s, found that family had lately got their pictures 
drawn by a limner,^ who traveled the country, and took likenesses 
for fifteen shillings a head. As this family and ours had long a 
sort of rivalry in point of taste, our spirit took the alarm at this 
stolen march upon us, and notwithstanding all I could say — and 
I said much — it was resolved that we should have our pictures 
done too. Having, therefore, engaged the limner, — for what 

1 A game of cards. 

2 Old and colloquial form for “ ate,” 

2 One who paints portraits. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


95 


could I do? — our next deliberation was to show the superiority 
of taste in the attitudes. As for our neighbor’s family, there were 
seven of them, and they were drawn with seven oranges, — a thing 
quite out of taste, no variety in life, no composition in the world. 
We desired to have something in a brighter style, and after 
many debates at length came to a unanimous resolution of being 
drawn together in one large historical family piece. This would 
be cheaper, since one frame would serve for all ; and it would be 
infinitely more genteel, for all families of any taste were now 
drawn in the same manner. As we did not immediately recollect 
an historical subject to hit^ us, we were contented each with 
being drawn as independent historical figures. My wife desired 
to be represented as Venus,^ and the painter was desired not to be 
too frugal of his diamonds in her stomacher ^ and hair. Her two 
little ones were to be as Cupids by her side, while I, in my gown 
and band,^ was to present her with my books on the Whistonian 
controversy. Olivia would be drawn as an Amazon ^ sitting upon 
a bank of flowers, dressed in a green Joseph® richly laced with 
gold, and a whip in her hand. Sophia was to be a shepherdess, 
with as many sheep as the painter could put in for nothing ; and 
Moses was to be dressed out with a hat and white feather. Our 
taste so much pleased the Squire that he insisted on being put in 
as one of the family in the character of Alexander the Great, at 
Olivia’s feet. This was considered by us all as an indication of 
his desire to be introduced into the family, nor could we refuse 
his request. The painter was therefore set to work, and as he 

1 Fit; suit. 

2 In Roman mythology, the goddess of love and beauty, and also the 
mother of Cupid. 

3 The front of the bodice. It was often embroidered and jeweled. 

4 The gown and band were the long overrobe and linen ornament about 
the neck which were worn by clergymen of the Church of England in 
Dr. Primrose’s time. 

5 The Amazons were, according to an old Greek legend, a race of women 
who gave themselves to war and the chase. 

6 A long coat worn by women in the eighteenth century. 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


96 

wrought with assiduity and expedition, in less than four days the 
whole was completed. The piece was large, and it must be 
owned he did not spare his colors ; for which my wife gave him 
great encomiums. We were all perfectly satisfied with his per- 
formance ; but an unfortunate circumstance had not occurred till 
the picture was finished, which now struck us with dismay. It 
was so very large that we had no place in the house to fix it! 
How we all came to disregard so material a point is inconceiv- 
able ; but certain it is, we had been all greatly remiss. The 
picture, therefore, instead of gratifying om’ vanity as we hoped, 
leaned in a most mortifying manner against the kitchen wall, 
where the canvas was stretched and painted, much too large to 
be got through any of the doors, and the jest of all our neighbors. 
One compared it to Robinson Crusoe’s long boat, too large to be 
removed ; another thought it more resembled a reel in a bottle ; 
some wondered how it could be got out, but still more were 
amazed how it ever got in. 

But though it excited the ridicule of some, it effectually raised 
more malicious suggestions in many. The Squire’s portrait being 
found united with ours was an honor too great to escape envy. 
Scandalous whispers began to circulate at our expense, and our 
tranquillity was continually disturbed by persons who came as 
friends to tell us what was said of us by enemies. These reports 
we always resented with becoming spirit; but scandal ever 
improves by opposition. 

We once again, therefore, entered into a consultation upon 
obviating the malice of our enemies, and at last came to a reso- 
lution which had too much cunning to give me entire satisfaction. 
It was this. As our principal object was to discover the honor of 
Mr. Thornhill’s addresses, my wife undertook to sound him by 
pretending to ask his advice in the choice of a husband for her 
eldest daughter. If this was not found sufficient to induce him 
to a declaration, it was then resolved to terrify him with a rival. 
To this last step, however, I would by no means give my con- 
sent till Olivia gave me the most solemn assurances that she 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


9 ) 


would marry the person provided to rival him upon this occa- 
sion, if he did not prevent it by taking her himself. Such was 
the scheme laid, which, though I did not strenuously oppose, I 
did not entirely approve. 

The next time, therefore, that Mr. Thornhill came to see us, 
my girls took care to be out of the way, in order to give their 
mamma an opportunity of putting her scheme into execution; 
but they only retired to the next room, whence they could over- 
hear the whole conversation. My wife artfully introduced it by 
observing that one of the Miss Flamboroughs was like to have a 
good match of it in Mr. Spanker. To this the Squire assenting, 
she proceeded to remark that they who had warm fortunes were 
always sure of getting good husbands ; “ but Heaven help,” con- 
tinued she, “the girls that have none! What signifies beauty, 
Mr. Thornhill ? or what signifies all the virtue and all the qualifi- 
cations in the world, in this age of self-interest? It is not, ‘ What 
is she? ’ but ‘ What has she? ’ is all the cry.” 

“ Madam,” returned he, “ I highly approve the justice as well 
as the novelty of your remarks, and if I were a king it should be 
otherwise. It should then, indeed, be fine times with the girls 
without fortunes. Our two young ladies should be the first for 
whom I would provide.” 

“ Ah, sir,” returned my wife, “ you are pleased to be facetjous ; 
but I wish I were a queen, and then I know where my eldest 
daughter should look for a husband. But, now that you have 
put it into my head, seriously, Mr. Thornhill, can’t you recom- 
mend me a proper husband for her ? She is now nineteen years 
old, well grown and well educated, and, in my humble opinion, 
does not want for parts.” 

“ Madam,” replied he, “ if I were to choose, I would find out 
a person possessed of every accomplishment that can make an 
angel happy. One with prudence, fortune, taste, and sincerity, — 
such, madam, would be, in my opinion, the proper husband.” 
“Ay, sir,” said she, “but do you know of any such person?” 
“No, madam,” returned he, “it is impossible to know any per- 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


98 

son that deserves to be her husband ; she’s too great a treasure 
for one man’s possession; she’s a goddess! Upon m}?" soul, I 
speak what I think; she’s an angel! ” “Ah, Mr. Thornhill, you 
only flatter my poor girl ; but we have been thinking of marry- 
ing her to one of your tenants, whose mother is lately dead, and 
who wants a manager. You know whom I mean — Farmer Wil- 
liams ; a warm man, Mr. Thornhill, able to give her good bread, 
and who has several times made her proposals [which was actually 
the case] ; but, sir,” concluded she, “ I should be glad to have 
your approbation of our choice.” “ How, madam,” replied he, 
“ my approbation ! My approbation of such a choice ! Never! 
What ! sacrifice so much beauty and sense and goodness to a crea- 
ture insensible of the blessing! Excuse me, I can never approve 
of such a piece of injustice! And I have my reasons.” “ Indeed, 
sir,” cried Deborah, “ if you have your reasons that’s another af- 
fair ; but I should be glad to know those reasons.” “ Excuse me, 
madam,” returned he; “they lie too deep for discovery [laying 
his hand upon his bosom] ; they remain buried, riveted here.” 

After he was gone, upon a general consultation we could not tell 
what to make of these fine sentiments. Olivia considered them as 
instances of the most exalted passion ; but I was not quite so san- 
guine. It seemed to me pretty plain that they had more of love 
than matrimony in them ; yet whatever they might portend, it was 
resolved to prosecute the scheme of Farmer Williams, who, from 
my daughter’s first appearance in the country, had paid her his 
addresses. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


SCARCE ANY VIRTUE FOUND TO RESIST THE POWER OF LONG AND PLEAS- 
ING TEMPTATION. 


AS I only studied my child’s real happiness, the assiduity of 
JTX Mr. Williams pleased me, as he was in easy circumstances, 
prudent, and sincere. It required but very little encouragement to 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


99 


revive his former passion ; so that in an evening or two he and 
Mr. Thornhill met at our house, and surveyed each other for some 
time with looks of anger ; but Williams owed his landlord no rent, 
and little regarded his indignation. Olivia, on her side, acted the 
coquette to perfection, if that might be called acting which was 
her real character, pretending to lavish all her tenderness on her 
new lover. Mr. Thornhill appeared quite dejected at this pref- 
erence, and with a pensive air took leave, though I own it 
puzzled me to find him so much in pain as he appeared to be, 
when he had it in his power so easily to remove the cause by de- 
claring an honorable passion. But whatever uneasiness he seemed 
to endure, it could easily be perceived that Olivia’s anguish was 
still greater. After any of these interviews between her lovers, 
of which there were several, she usually retired to solitude, and 
there indulged her grief. It was in such a situation I found her 
one evening, after she had been for some time supporting a fic- 
titious gayety. “ You now see, my child,” said I, “ that your con- 
fidence in Mr. Thornhill’s passion was all a dream ; he permits the 
rivalry of another, every way his inferior, though he knows it lies 
in his power to secure you to himself by a candid declaration.” 
“ Yes, papa,” returned she, “ but he has his reasons for this delay ; 
I know he has. The sincerity of his looks and words convinces 
me of his real esteem. A short time, I hope, will discover the 
generosity of his sentiments, and convince you that my opinion 
of him has been more just than yours.” “ Olivia, my darling,” 
returned I, '' every scheme that has been hitherto pursued to com- 
pel him to a declaration has been proposed and planned by your- 
self, nor can you in the least say that I have constrained you. 
But you must not suppose, my dear, that I will ever be instru- 
mental in suffering his honest rival to be the dupe of your ill- 
placed passion. Whatever time you require to bring yom* fancied 
admirer to an explanation shall be granted ; but at the expiration 
of that term, if he is still regardless, I must absolutely insist that 
honest Mr. Williams shall be rewarded for his fidelity. The char- 
acter which I have hitherto supported in life demands this from 


lOO 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


me, and my tenderness as a parent shall never influence my in- 
tegrity as a man. Name, then, your day; let it be as distant as 
you think proper; and in the mean time take care to let Mr. 
Thornhill know the exact time on which I design delivering you 
up to another. If he really loves you, his own good sense will 
readily suggest that there is but one method alone to prevent his 
losing you forever.” This proposal, which she could not avoid 
considering as perfectly just, was readily agreed to. She again 
renewed her most positive promise of marrying Mr. Williams, in 
case of the other’s insensibility ; and at the next opportunity, in 
Mr. Thornhill’s presence, that day month was fixed upon for her 
nuptials with his rival. 

Such vigorous proceedings seemed to redouble Mr. Thornhill’s 
anxiety; but what Olivia really felt gave me some uneasiness. 
In this struggle between prudence and passion, her vivacity quite 
forsook her, and every opportunity of solitude was sought, and 
spent in tears. One week passed away ; but Mr. Thornhill made 
no efforts to restrain her nuptials. The succeeding week he was 
still assiduous, but not more open. On the third he discontinued 
his visits entirely, and instead of my daughter testifying any im- 
patience as I expected, she seemed to retain a pensive tranquillity, 
which I looked upon as resignation. For my own part, I was 
now sincerely pleased with thinking that my child was going to 
be secured in a continuance of competence and peace, and 
frequently applauded her resolution in preferring happiness to 
ostentation. 

It was within about four days of her intended nuptials that my 
little family at night were gathered round a charming fire, telling 
stories of the past, and laying schemes for the future; busy in 
forming a thousand projects, and laughing at whatever folly came 
uppermost. '' Well, Moses,” cried I, “ we shall soon, my boy, 
have a wedding in the family ; what is your opinion of matters and 
things in general ? ” '' My opinion, father, is that all things go 

on very well ; and I was just now thinking that when sister Livy 
is married to Farmer Williams we shall then have the loan of his 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


lOI 


cider press and brewing tubs for nothing.” That we shall, 
Moses,” cried I, “ and he will sing us ‘ Death and the Lady ’ ^ to 
raise our spirits, into the bargain.” “ He has taught that song 
to our Dick,” cried Moses, “ and I think he goes through with 
it very prettily.” “ Does he so ? ” cried I ; “ then let us have it. 
Where’s little Dick ? let him up with it boldly.” “ My brother 
Dick,” cried Bill, my youngest, “is just gone out with sister 
Livy ; but Mr. Williams has taught me two songs, and I’ll sing 
them for you, papa. Which song do you choose, ‘The Dying 
Swan,’ or ‘The Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog’?” “The 
elegy, child, by all means,” said I ; “ I never heard that yet. — 
And Deborah, my life, grief, you know, is dry ; let us have a bottle 
of the best gooseberry wine to keep up our spirits. I have wept 
so much at all sorts of elegies of late that without an enlivening 
glass I am sure this will overcome me. — And Sophy, love, take 
your guitar, and thrum in with the boy a little.” 


AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 

Good people all of every sort, 

Give ear unto my song; 

And if you find it wondrous short 
It cannot hold you long. 

In Islington there was a man 
Of whom the world might say, 

That still a godly race he ran 
Whene’er he went to pray. 

1 A popular ballad by an unknown writer, the exact title of which is, The 
Great Messenger of Mortality ; or, A Dialogue between Death and a Lady. 
The beginning lines are : 

“Fair Lady, lay your costly robes aside; 

No longer may you glory in your pride.” 

Goldsmith refers to the song in his essay. Description of Various Clubs. It 
is not known to what tune it was sung. 


102 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


A kind and gentle heart he had, 

To comfort friends and foes; 

The naked every day he clad, 

When he put on his clothes. 

And in that town a dog was found, 

As many dogs there be, 

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound. 

And curs of low degree. 

This dog and man at first were friends ; 

But when a pique began. 

The dog, to gain some private ends. 

Went mad, and bit the man. 

Around from all the neighboring streets 
The wondering neighbors ran. 

And swore the dog had lost his wits. 

To bite so good a man. 

The wound it seemed both sore and sad 
To every Christian eye; 

And while they swore the dog was mad. 

They swore the man would die. 

But soon a wonder came to light. 

That showed the rogues they lied; 

The man recovered of the bite, — 

The dog it was that died. 

^^A very good boy, Bill, upon my word, and an elegy that 
may be truly called tragical. — Come, my children, here’s Bill’s 
health, and may he one day be a bishop ! ” 

“ With all my heart,” cried my wife ; and if he but preaches 
as well as he sings, I make no doubt of him. The most of his 
family by his mother’s side could sing a good song. It was a 
common saying in our country that the family of the Blenkinsops 
could never look straight before them, nor the Hugginsons blow 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


103 


out a candle ; that there were none of the Grograms but could 
sing a song, or of the Marjorams but could tell a story.” “ How- 
ever that be,” cried I, “ the most vulgar ballad of them all gener- 
ally pleases me better than the fine modem odes, and things that 
petrify us in a single stanza, — productions that we at once detest 
and praise. Put the glass to your brother, Moses. — The great 
fault of these elegiasts is that they are in despair for griefs that 
give the sensible part of mankind very little pain. A lady loses 
her muff, her fan, or her lapdog, and so the silly poet runs home 
to versify the disaster.” 

‘'That may be the mode,” cried Moses, “in sublimer com- 
positions ; but the Ranelagh ^ songs that come down to us are 
perfectly familiar, and all cast in the same mold. Colin meets 
Dolly, and they hold a dialogue together; he gives her a fair- 
ing 2 to put in her hair, and she presents him with a nosegay ; and 
then they go together to a church, where they give good advice 
to young nymphs and swains to get married as fast as they can.” 

“ And very good advice too,” cried I ; “ and I am told there 
is not a place in the world where advice can be given with so 
much propriety as there ; for as it persuades us to marry, it also 
furnishes us with a wife ; and surely that must be an excellent 
market, my boy, where we are told what we want, and supplied 
with it when wanting.” 

“Yes, my boy,” cried his mother; “old England is the only 
place in the world for husbands to get wives.” — “And for wives 
to manage their husbands,” intermpted I. “ It is a proverb 
abroad that if a bridge were built across the sea, all the ladies 
of the Continent would come over to take pattern from ours; 
for there are no such wives in Europe as our own. But let us 
have one bottle more, Deborah, my life; — and Moses, give us 
a good song. What thanks do we not owe to Heaven for thus 
bestowing tranquillity, health, and competence! I think myself 
happier now than the greatest monarch upon earth. He has no 

1 A popular place of amusement in London in Goldsmith’s time. 

2 A present brought from a fair. 


104 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


such fireside, nor such pleasant faces about it. Yes, Deborah, 
we are now growing old ; but the evening of our life is likely to 
be happy. We are descended from ancestors that knew no stain, 
and we shall leave a good and virtuous race of children behind 
us. While we live, they will be our support and our pleasure 
here ; and when we die, they will transmit our honor untainted 
to posterity. — Come, my son, we wait for a song ; let us have a 
chorus. — But where is my darling Olivia ? That little cherub’s 
voice is always sweetest in the concert.” Just as I spoke, Dick 
came running in. “ O papa, papa, she is gone from us, she is 
gone from us ; my sister Livy is gone from us forever! ” Gone, 
child!” “Yes, she is gone off with two gentlemen in a post 
chaise, and one of them kissed her, and said he would die for 
her; and she cried very much, and was for coming back; but 
he persuaded her again, and she went into the chaise, and said, 
‘Oh, what will my poor papa do when he knows I am undone! ’ ” 
“Now, then,” cried I, “my children, go and be miserable; for 
we shall never enjoy one hour more. And oh, may Heaven’s 
everlasting fury light upon him and his, thus to rob me of my 
child! And sure it will, for taking back my sweet innocent that 
I was leading up to heaven. Such sincerity as my child was 
possessed of! But all our earthly happiness is now over! Go, 
my children, go and be miserable and infamous ; for my heart is 
broken within me!” “Father,” cried my son, “is this your for- 
titude?” “Fortitude, child! — yes, ye shall see I have fortitude! 
Bring me my pistols. Fll pursue the traitor; while he is on 
earth Fll pursue him. Old as I am, he shall find I can sting him 
yet. The villain! The perfidious villain!” I had by this time 
reached down my pistols, when my poor wife, whose passions 
were not as strong as mine, caught me in her arms. “ My dear- 
est, dearest husband,” cried she, “ the Bible is the only weapon 
that is fit for your old hands now. Open that, my love, and 
read our anguish into patience, for she has vilely deceived us.” 
“ Indeed, sir,” resumed my son, after a pause, “ your rage is too 
violent and unbecoming. You should be my mother’s comforter, 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 


105 

and you increase her pain. It ill suited you and your reverend 
character thus to curse your greatest enemy ; you should not have 
cursed him, villain as he is.” “ I did not curse him, child, did 
I ? ” “ Indeed, sir, you did ; you cursed him twice.” Then 

may Heaven forgive me and him if I did! And now, my son, 
I see it was more than human benevolence that first taught us to 
bless our enemies 1 Blessed be His holy name for all the good 
He hath given, and for all that He hath taken away ! But it is 
not — it is not a small distress that can wring tears from these 
old eyes that have not wept for so many years. My child! — to 
undo my darling! — may confusion seize — Heaven forgive me, 
what am I about to say! — You may remember, my love, how 
good she was, and how charming; till this vile moment all her 
care was to make us happy. Had she but died! But she is 
gone, the honor of our family contaminated, and I must look 
out for happiness in other worlds than here. — But, my child, 
you saw them go off ; perhaps he forced her away? If he forced 
her, she may yet be innocent.” Ah, no, sir,” cried the child ; 
“ he only kissed her, and called her his angel, and she wept very 
much, and leaned upon his arm, and they drove off very fast.” 
“She’s an ungrateful creature,” cried my wife, who could scarcely 
speak for weeping, “ to use us thus. She never had the least 
constraint put upon her affections. She has basely deserted her 
parents without any provocation, thus to bring your gray hairs to 
the grave ; and I must shortly follow.” 

In this manner that night, the first of our real misfortunes, 
was spent in the bitterness of complaint, and ill-supported sallies 
of enthusiasm. I determined, however, to find out our betrayer, 
wherever he was, and reproach his baseness. The next morning 
we missed our wretched child at breakfast, where she used to give 
life and cheerfulness to us all. My, wife, as before, attempted 
to ease her heart by reproaches. “Never,” cried she, “shall the 
vilest stain of our family again darken these harmless doors. I 
will never call her daughter more. No; she may bring us to 
shame, but she shall nevermore deceive us.” 


io6 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


“ Wife,” said I, “ do not talk thus hardly ; my detestation of 
her deception is as great as yours ; but ever shall this house and 
this heart be open to a poor, returning, repentant sinner. The 
sooner she returns the more welcome shall she be to me. For the 
first time the very best may err ; art may persuade, and novelty 
spread out its charm. The first fault is the child of simplicity, 
but every other the offspring of guilt. Yes, the wretched girl 
shall be welcome to this heart and this house. I will again 
hearken to the music of her voice, again will I hang fondly on 
her bosom, if I find but repentance there. — My son, bring hither 
my Bible and my staff ; I will pursue her wherever she is.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


THE PURSUIT OF A FATHER TO RECLAIM A LOST CHILD. 

UGH the child could not describe the gentleman’s per- 



X son who handed his sister into the post chaise, yet my sus- 
picions fell entirely upon our young landlord, whose character for 
such intrigues was but too well known. I therefore directed my 
steps towards Thornhill Castle, resolving to upbraid him, and if 
possible to bring back my daughter; but before I had reached 
his seat I was met by one of my parishioners, who said he saw 
a young lady resembling my daughter, in a post chaise with a 
gentleman, whom, by the description, I could only guess to be 
Mr. Burchell, and that they drove very fast. This information, 
however, did by no means satisfy me. I therefore went to the 
young Squire’s, and though it was yet early, insisted upon see- 
ing him immediately. He soon appeared with the most open, 
familiar air, and seemed perfectly amazed at my daughter’s 
elopement, protesting upon his honor that he was quite a stranger 
to it. I now, therefore, condemned my former suspicions, and 
could turn them only on Mr. Burchell, who, I recollected, had of 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 107 

late several private conferences with her ; but the appearance of 
another witness left no room to doubt his villainy, who averred 
that he and my daughter were actually gone towards the Wells, 
about thirty miles off, where there was a great deal of company. 
Being driven to that state of mind in which we all are more ready 
to act precipitately than to reason right, I never debated with 
myself whether these accounts might not have been given by 
persons purposely placed in my way to mislead me, but resolved 
to pursue my daughter and her fancied deluder thither. I walked 
along with earnestness, and inquired of several by the way ; but 
received no accounts, till, entering the town, I was met by a 
person on horseback, whom I remembered to have seen at the 
Squire’s, and he assured me that if I followed them to the races, 
which were but thirty miles farther, I might depend upon over- 
taking them ; for he had seen them dance there the night before, 
and the whole assembly seemed charmed with my daughter’s per- 
formance. Early the next day, I walked forward to the races, 
and about four in the afternoon I came upon the course. The 
company made a very brilliant appearance, all earnestly employed 
in one pursuit, — that of pleasure. How different from mine, — 
that of reclaiming a lost child ! I thought I perceived Mr. Burchell 
at some distance from me ; but, as if he dreaded an interview, upon 
my approaching him he mixed among a crowd, and I saw him 
no more. I now reflected that it would be to no purpose to con- 
tinue my pursuit farther, and resolved to return home to an inno- 
cent family who wanted my assistance. But the agitations of my 
mind, and the fatigues I had undergone, threw me into a fever, 
the symptoms of which I perceived before I came off the course. 
This was another unexpected stroke, as I was more than seventy 
miles distant from home ; however, I retired to a little public 
house by the roadside, and in this place, the usual retreat of in- 
digence and frugality, I laid me down patiently to wait the issue 
of my disorder. I languished here for nearly three weeks; but 
at last my constitution prevailed, though I was unprovided with 
money to defray the expenses of my entertainment. It is pos- 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


loS 

sible the anxiety from this last circumstance alone might have 
brought on a relapse, had I not been supplied by a traveler who 
stopped to take a cursory refreshment. This person was no other 
than the philanthropic bookseller ^ in St. Paul’s Churchyard, who 
has written so many little books for children. He called himself 
their friend ; but he was the friend of all mankind. He was no 
sooner alighted but he was in haste to be gone ; for he was ever 
on business of the utmost importance, and was at that time actu- 
ally compiling materials for the history of one Mr. Thomas Trip.^ 
I immediately recollected this good-natiu*ed man’s red-pimpled 
face, for he had published for me against the deuterogamists of 
the age, and from him I borrowed a few pieces, to be paid at my 
return. Leaving the inn, therefore, as I was yet but weak I re- 
solved to return home by easy journeys of ten miles a day. My 
health and usual tranquillity were almost restored, and I now 
condemned that pride which had made me refractory to the hand 
of correction. Man little knows what calamities are beyond his 
patience to bear, till he tries them. As in ascending the heights 
of ambition, which look bright from below, every step we rise 
shows us some new and gloomy prospect of hidden disappoint- 
ment; so in our descent from the summits of pleasure, though 
the vale of misery below may appear at first dark and gloomy, 
yet the busy mind, still attentive to its own amusement, finds, as 
we descend, something to flatter and to please. Still, as we ap- 
proach, the darkest objects appear to brighten, and the mental 
eye becomes adapted to its gloomy situation. 

I now proceeded forward, and had walked about two hours 

1 “ Honest John Newbery ” (1713-67) “ was,” says Washington Irving, 
“ a worthy, intelligent, kind-hearted man, and a reasonable, though cautious, 
friend to authors, relieving them with small loans when in pecuniary difficul- 
ties, though always taking care to be well repaid by the labor of their pens.” 
Conjointly with Mr. Griffith Jones and others he wrote or compiled such 
books for children as Giles Gingerbread, and Tom Telescope. 

2 A Pretty Book of Pictures for Little Masters and Misses ; or. Tommy 
Trip’s History of Beasts and Birds, to Which is Prefixed the History of Little 
Tom Trip Himself, is attributed to Goldsmith. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 1 09 

when I perceived what appeared at a distance like a wagon, 
which I was resolved to overtake ; but when I came up with it, I 
found it to be a strolling company’s cart, that was carrying their 
scenes and other theatrical furniture to the next village, where 
they were to exhibit. The cart was attended only by the per- 
son who drove it, and one of the company, as the rest of the 
players were to follow the ensuing day. ‘‘ Good company upon 
the road,” says the proverb, “is the shortest cut.” I therefore 
entered into conversation with the poor player, and as I once 
had some theatrical powers myself, I disserted on such topics 
with my usual freedom ; but as I was pretty much unacquainted 
with the present state of the stage, I demanded who were the pres- 
ent theatrical writers in vogue, — who the Drydens ^ and Otways ^ 
of the day. “ I fancy, sir,” cried the player, “ few of our mod- 
ern dramatists would think themselves much honored by being 
compared to the writers you mention. Dryden’s and Rowe’s^ 
manner, sir, are quite out of fashion ; our taste has gone back a 
whole century ; Fletcher,*^ Ben Jonson, and all the plays of Shake- 
speare are the only things that go down.” “How!” cried I; 
“is it possible the present age can be pleased with that anti- 
quated dialect, that obsolete humor, those overcharged charac- 
ters, which abound in the works you mention? ” “ Sir,” returned 
my companion, “ the public think nothing about dialect, or humor, 
or character, for that is none of their business ; they only go to 
be amused, and find themselves happy when they can enjoy a 
pantomime under the sanction of Jonson’s or Shakespeare’s 
name.” “So, then, I suppose,” cried I, “that our modern 
dramatists are rather imitators of Shakespeare than of nature.” 

1 See Note i, p. 43. 

2 Thomas Otway (1651-85) was an English dramatist of the time of 
Dryden. 

2 Nicholas Rowe (1673-1718) was also a dramatist. His most successful 
play is referred to on p. 1 1 7. 

^ John Fletcher, whose name is inseparably connected with that of Francis 
Beaumont, his brother in labors and domestic life, was a contemporary of 
“ rare Ben Jonson ” and of Shakespeare. 


no 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


To say the truth,” returned my companion, I don’t know that 
they imitate anything at all ; nor, indeed, does the public require 
it of them ; it is not the composition of the piece, but the num- 
ber of starts and attitudes that may be introduced into it, that 
elicits applause.! I have known a piece, with not one jest in the 
whole, shrugged into popularity. No, sir, the works of Congreve 
and Farquhar^ have too much wit in them for the present taste ; 
our modern dialect is much more natural.” 

By this time the equipage of the strolling company was arrived 
at the village, which, it seems, had been apprised of our approach, 
and was come out to gaze at us; for my companion observed 
that strollers always have more spectators without doors than 
within. I did not consider the impropriety of my being in such 
company, till I saw a mob gather about me. I therefore took 
shelter, as fast as possible, in the first public house that offered, 
and being shown into the common room, was accosted by a very 
well-dressed gentleman, who demanded whether I was the real 
chaplain of the company, or whether it was only to be my mas- 
querade character in the play. Upon my informing him of the 
truth, and that I did not belong in any sort to the company, he 
was condescending enough to desire me and the player to par- 
take in a bowl of punch, over which he discussed modern politics 
with great earnestness and interest. I set him down in my own 
mind for nothing less than a Parliament man at least; but was 
almost confirmed in my conjectures when, upon asking what there 
was in the house for supper, he insisted that I and the player 
should sup with him at his house ; with which request, after some 
entreaties, we were prevailed on to comply. 

* This is clearly Goldsmith’s own view of the condition to which the sen- 
timental comedy of his time had brought the stage. 

2 William Congreve (1670-1719) and George Farquhar (1678-1707) were 
master writers of English comedy. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 


111 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE DESCRIPTION OF A PERSON DISCONTENTED WITH THE PRESENT GOV- 
ERNMENT AND APPREHENSIVE OF THE LOSS OF OUR LIBERTIES. 

T he house where we were to be entertained lying at a small 
distance from the village, our inviter observed that, as the 
coach was not ready, he would conduct us on foot ; and we soon 
arrived at one of the most magnificent mansions I had seen in 
that part of the country. The apartment into which we were 
shown was perfectly elegant and modern. He went to give orders 
for supper, while the player, with a wink, observed that we were 
perfectly in luck. Our entertainer soon returned; an elegant 
supper was brought in, two or three ladies in an easy deshabille were 
introduced, and the conversation began with some sprightliness. 
Politics, however, was the subject on which our entertainer chiefly 
expatiated ; for he asserted that liberty was at once his boast 
and his terror. After the cloth was removed, he asked me if I 
had seen the last ‘^Monitor;” to which replying in the negative, 
*‘What, not the ‘Auditor,’ I suppose?” cried he. “Neither, 
sir,” returned I. “That’s strange — very strange,” replied my 
entertainer. “Now, I read. all the politics that come out. The 
‘ Daily,’ the ‘ Public,’ the ‘ Ledger,’ the ‘ Chronicle,’ the ‘ London 
Evening,’ the ‘Whitehall Evening,’ the seventeen magazines, and 
the two reviews; and though they hate each other I love them 
all. Liberty, sir, liberty is the Briton’s boast, and, by all my coal 
mines in Cornwall ! I reverence its guardians.” “Then it is to 
be hoped,” cried I, “ you reverence the King.” “Yes,” returned 
my entertainer, “ when he does what we would have him ; but if 
he goes on as he has done of late. I’ll never trouble myself more 
with his matters. I say nothing. I think, only, I could have 
directed some things better. I don’t think there has been a suf- 
ficient number of advisers; he should advise with every person 


I 12 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


willing to give him advice, and then we should have things done 
in another-guess ^ manner.” 

“ I wish,” cried I, "that such intruding advisers were fixed in 
the pillory. 2 It should be the duty of honest men to assist the 
weaker side of our constitution, that sacred power which has for 
some years been every day declining, and losing its due share of 
influence in the state. But these ignorants still continue the 
same cry of liberty ; and if they have any weight, basely throw 
it into the subsiding scale.” 

"How!” cried one of the ladies, "do I live to see one so 
base, so sordid, as to be an enemy to liberty, and a defender of 
tyrants ? Liberty, that sacred gift of Heaven, that glorious 
privilege of Britons! ” 

"Can it be possible,” cried our entertainer, "that there should 
be any found at present advocates for slavery ? any who are for 
meanly giving up the privileges of Britons ? Can any, sir, be so 
abject? ” 

"No, sir,” replied I ; " I am for liberty, that attribute of God! 
glorious liberty, that theme of modern declamation ! I would 
have all men kings. I would be a king myself. We have all 
naturally an equal right to the throne ; we are all originally equal. 
This is my opinion, and was once the opinion of a set of honest 
men who were called Levelers.^ They tried to erect themselves 
into a community where all should be equally free. But, alas! 
it would never answer ; for there were some among them stronger, 
and some more cunning than others, and these became masters 
of the rest ; for as sure as your groom rides your horses, because 
he is a cunninger animal than they, so surely will the animal that 
is cunninger or stronger than he sit upon his shoulders in turn. 

1 Of another kind. 

2 A frame of movable boards by means of which the head and hands of 
an offender were held fast while he was exposed to public gaze, and possibly 
to public derision. 

3 A faction in the Parliamentary army, which in 1647 wished to level all 
ranks and to establish equality in titles and estates throughout the kingdom. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


I13 

Since, then, it is entailed upon humanity to submit, and some are 
born to command, and others to obey, the question is, as there 
must be tyrants, whether it is better to have them in the same 
house with us, or in the same village, or still farther off, in the 
metropolis. Now, sir, for my own part, as I naturally hate the 
face of a tyrant, the farther off he is removed from me, the better 
pleased am I. The generality of mankind also are of my way 
of thinking, and have unanimously created one king, whose elec- 
tion at once diminishes the number of tyrants, and puts tyranny 
at the greatest distance from the greatest number of people. 
Now the great, who were tyrants themselves before the election 
of one tyrant, are naturally averse to a power raised over them, 
and whose weight must ever lean heaviest on the subordinate 
orders. It is the interest of the great, therefore, to diminish 
kingly power as much as possible, because whatever they take 
from that is naturally restored to themselves ; and all they have 
to do in the state is to undermine the single tyrant, by which 
they resume their primeval authority. Now the state may be 
so circumstanced, or its laws may be so disposed, or its men of 
opulence so minded, as all to conspire in carrying on this busi- 
ness of undermining monarchy. For, in the first place, if the 
circumstances of our state be such as to favor the accumulation 
of wealth and make the opulent still more rich, this will increase 
their ambition. An accumulation of wealth, however, must neces- 
sarily be the consequence, when, as at present, more riches flow 
in from external commerce than arise from internal industry; 
for external commerce can only be managed to advantage by 
the rich, and they have also at the same time all the emoluments 
arising from internal industry ; so that the rich, with us, have two 
sources of wealth, whereas the poor have but one. For this rea- 
son wealth, in all commercial states, is found to accumulate, and all 
such have hitherto in time become aristocratical. Again, the very 
laws, also, of this country may contribute to the accumulation of 
wealth ; as when, by their means, the natural ties that bind the 
rich and poor together are broken, and it is ordained that the 
i • 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


114 

rich shall only marry with the rich ; or when the learned are held 
unqualified to serve their country as counselors, merely from a 
defect of opulence, and wealth is thus made the object of a wise 
man’s ambition. By these means, I say, and such means as these, 
riches will accumulate. Now the possessor of accumulated 
wealth, when furnished with the necessaries and pleasures of life, 
has no other method to employ the superfluity of his fortune but 
in purchasing power, — that is, differently speaking, in making 
dependents, by purchasing the liberty of the needy or the venal, 
of men who are willing to bear the mortification of contiguous 
tyranny for bread. Thus each very opulent man generally gathers 
round him a circle of the people ; and the polity abounding in 
accumulated wealth may be compared to a Cartesian system, 1 
each orb with a vortex of its own.'N, Those, however, who are 
willing to move in a great man’s vortex are only such as must be 
slaves, the rabble of mankind, whose souls and whose education 
are adapted to servitude, and who know nothing of liberty except 
the name. But there must still be a large number of the people 
without the sphere of the opulent man’s influence ; namely, that 
order of men which subsist between the very rich and the very 
rabble; those men who are possessed of too large fortunes to 
submit to the neighboring man in power, and yet are too poor 
to set up for tyranny themselves. In this middle order of man- 
kind are generally to be found all the arts, wisdom, and virtues 
of society. This order alone is known to be the true preserver 
of freedom, and may be called the people. Now it may happen 
that this middle order of mankind may lose all its influence in a 
state, and its voice be in a manner drowned in that of the rabble ; 
for if the fortune sufficient for qualifying a person at present to 
give his voice in state affairs be ten times less than was judged 
sufficient upon forming the constitution, it is evident that greater 
numbers of the rabble will thus be introduced into the political 

1 Cartesian system,” i.e., the system of Ren^ Descartes (1596-1650), a 
French philosopher, who taught that all space is filled with matter which 
turns about in vortices. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


“5 


system, and they, ever moving in the vortex of the great, will 
follow where greatness shall direct. In such a state, therefore, 
all that the middle order has left is to preserve the prerogative 
and privileges of the one principal governor with the most sacred 
circumspection ; for he divides the power of the rich, and calls 
off the great from falling with tenfold weight on the middle order 
placed beneath them. The middle order may be compared to 
a town, of which the opulent are forming the siege, and which 
the governor from without is hastening to relieve. While the be- 
siegers are in dread of an enemy over them, it is but natural to 
offer the townsmen the most specious terms, — to flatter them with 
sounds, and amuse them with privileges ; but if they once defeat 
the governor from behind, the walls of the town will be but a 
small defense to its inhabitants. What they may then expect 
may be seen by turning our eyes to Holland, Genoa, or Venice, 
where the laws govern the poor, and the rich govern the laws. 
I am then for, and would die for, monarchy, sacred monarchy ; 
for if there be anything sacred amongst men, it must be the 
anointed sovereign of his people; and every diminution of his 
power, in war or in peace, is an infringement upon the real lib- 
erties of the subject. The sounds of liberty, patriotism, and 
Britons have already done much; it is to be hoped that the 
true sons of freedom will prevent their ever doing more. I have 
known many of those pretended champions of liberty in my 
time, yet do I not remember one that was not in his heart and 
in his family, a tyrant.” 

My warmth, I found, had lengthened this harangue beyond 
the rules of good breeding ; but the impatience of my entertainer, 
who often strove to interrupt it, could be restrained no longer. 
“What!” cried he, “then I have been all this while entertaining 
a traitor in parson’s clothes! but, by all the coal mines of Corn- 
wall! out he shall pack, if my name be Wilkinson.” I now found 
that I had gone too far, and asked pardon for the warmth with 
which I had spoken. “ Pardon! ” returned he, in a fury ; “ I think 
such principles demand ten thousand pardons. What! give up 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


1 16 

liberty, property, and, as the ‘Gazetteer’ says, lie down to be 
saddled with wooden shoes! Sir, I insist upon your marching 
out of this house immediately, to prevent worse consequences; 
sir, I insist upon it.” I was going to repeat my remonstrances ; 
but just then we heard a footman’s rap at the door, and the two 
ladies cried out, “ As sure as death, there is our master and mis- 
tress come home.” It seems my entertainer was all this while 
only the butler, who, in his master’s absence, had a mind to cut 
a figure and be for a while the gentleman himself ; and to say 
the truth, he talked politics as well as most country gentlemen 
do. But nothing could now exceed my confusion upon seeing 
the gentleman and his lady enter ; nor was their surprise at find- 
ing such company and good cheer less than ours. “ Gentlemen,” 
cried the real master of the house to me and my companion, “ my 
wife and I are your most humble servants ; but I protest this is 
so unexpected a favor that we almost sink under the obligation.” 
However unexpected our company might be to them, theirs, I 
am sure, was still more so to us, and I was struck dumb with the 
apprehensions of my own absiu*dity, when whom should I next 
see enter the room but my dear Miss Arabella Wilmot, who was 
formerly designed to be married to my son George, but whose 
match was broken off as already related. As soon as she saw me, 
she flew to my arms with the utmost joy. “ My dear sir,” cried 
she, “to what happy accident is it that we owe so unexpected a 
visit? I am sure my uncle and aunt will be in raptures when 
they find they have the good Dr. Primrose for their guest.” 
Upon hearing my name, the old gentleman and lady very politely 
stepped up, and welcomed me with the most cordial hospitality. 
Nor could they forbear smiling upon being informed of the 
nature of my present visit ; but the unfortunate butler, whom 
they at first seemed disposed to turn away, was at my interces- 
sion forgiven. 

Mr. Arnold and his lady, to whom the house belonged, now 
insisted upon having the pleasure of my stay for some days ; and 
as their niece, my charming pupil, whose mind in some measure 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


I17 

had been formed under my own instructions, joined in their en- 
treaties, I complied. That night I was shown to a magnificent 
chamber, and the next morning early Miss Wilmot desired to 
walk with me in the garden, which was decorated in the modern 
manner. After some time spent in pointing out the beauties of 
the place, she inquired with seeming unconcern when last I had 
heard from my son George. ‘‘Alas! madam,” cried I, “he has 
now been nearly three years absent, without ever writing to his 
friends or me. Where he is I know not ; perhaps I shall never 
see him or happiness more. No, my dear madam, we shall never- 
more see such pleasing hours as were once spent by our fireside 
at Wakefield. My little family are now dispersing very fast, and 
poverty has brought not only want, but infamy upon us.” The 
good-natured girl let fall a tear at this account ; but as I saw her 
possessed of too much sensibility, I forbore a more minute detail 
of our sufferings. It was, however, some consolation to me to 
find that time had made no alteration in her affections, and that 
she had rejected several offers that had been made her since our 
leaving her part of the country. She led me round all the ex- 
tensive improvements of the place, pointing to the several walks 
and arbors, and at the same time catching from every object a 
hint for some new question relative to my son. In this manner 
we spent the forenoon, till the bell summoned us in to dinner, 
where we found the manager of the strolling company that I 
mentioned before, who was come to dispose of tickets for the 
“ Fair Penitent,” ^ which was to be acted that evening, the part 
of Horatio by a young gentleman who had never appeared on 
any stage. He seemed to be very warm in the praises of the 
new performer, and averred that he never saw any who bid so 
fair for excellence. Acting, he observed, was not learned in a 
day ; “ but this gentleman,” continued he, “ seems born to tread 
the stage. His voice, his figure, and attitudes, are all admirable 
We caught him up accidentally in our journey down.” This 
account in some measure excited our curiosity, and, at the en 
1 A play which was long popular, written by Nicholas Rowe. 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


1 18 

treaty of the ladies, I was prevailed upon to accompany them to 
the playhouse, which was no other than a barn. As the company 
with which I went was incontestably the chief of the place, we 
were received with the greatest respect, and placed in the front 
seat of the theater, where we sat for some time with no small 
impatience to see Horatio make his appearance. The new per- 
former advanced at last ; and let parents think of my sensations 
by their own, when I found it was my unfortunate son! He 
was going to begin, when, turning his eyes upon the audience, 
he perceived Miss Wilmot and me, and stood at once speechless 
and immovable. The actors behind the scene, who ascribed this 
pause to his natural timidity, attempted to encourage him; but 
instead of going on, he burst into a flood of tears, and retired off 
the stage. I don’t know what were my feelings on this occasion, 
for they succeeded with too much rapidity for description ; but I 
was soon awaked from this disagreeable reverie by Miss Wilmot, 
who, pale, and with a trembling voice, desired me to conduct her 
back to her uncle’s. When we got home, Mr. Arnold, who was as 
yet a stranger to our extraordinary behavior, being informed that 
the new performer was my son, sent his coach and an invitation 
for him ; and as he persisted in his refusal to appear again upon 
the stage, the players put another in his place, and we soon had 
him with us. Mr. Arnold gave him the kindest reception, and I 
received him with my usual transport ; for I could never counter- 
feit false resentment. Miss Wilmot’s reception was mixed with 
seeming neglect, and yet I could perceive she acted a studied 
part. The tumult in her mind seemed not yet abated ; she said 
twenty giddy things that looked like joy, and then laughed loud 
at her own want of meaning. At intervals she would take a sly 
peep at the glass, as if happy in the consciousness of irresistible 
beauty, and often would ask questions without giving any man- 
ner of attention to the answers. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 


II9 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND PURSUING NOVELTY, BUT 
LOSING CONTENT. 1 

AFTER we had supped, Mrs. Arnold politely offered to send 
±\. a couple of her footmen for my son’s baggage, which he 
at first seemed to decline ; but upon her pressing the request, he 
was obliged to inform her that a stick and wallet were all the 
movable things upon this earth that he could boast of. ‘‘ Why, 
ay, my son,” cried I, ” you left me but poor, and poor I find you 
are come back ; and yet I make no doubt you have seen a great 
deal of the world.” “Yes, sir,” replied my son, “but traveling 
after Fortune is not the way to secure her; and indeed of late I 
have desisted from the pursuit.” “ I fancy, sir,” cried Mrs. Arnold, 
“that the account of your adventmes would be amusing: the first 
part of them I have often heard from my niece ; but could the 
company prevail for the rest, it would be an additional obliga- 
tion.” “ Madam,” replied my son, “ I promise you the pleasure 
you have in hearing will not be half so great as my vanity in re- 
peating them ; yet in the whole narrative I can scarcely promise 
you one adventure, as my account is rather of what I saw than 
what I did. The first misfortune of my life, which you all know, 
was great; but though it distressed, it could not sink me. No 
person ever had a better knack at hoping than I. The less kind 
I found Fortune at one time, the more I expected from her 
another; and being now at the bottom of her wheel, every new 
revolution might lift, but could not depress me. I proceeded, 
therefore, towards London in a fine morning, no way uneasy 
about to-morrow, but cheerful as the birds that caroled by the 
road, and comforted myself with reflecting that London was the 
mart where abilities of every kind were sure of meeting distinc- 
tion and reward. 

1 Goldsmith himself is the hero of the adventures described in this chapter. 


120 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


“Upon my arrival in town, sir, my first care was to deliver 
your letter of recommendation to our cousin, who was himself in’ 
little better circumstances than I. My first scheme, you know, 
sir, was to be usher at an academy, and I asked his advice on 
the affair. Our cousin received the proposal with a true sardonic 
grin. ‘Ay,’ cried he, ‘this is indeed a very pretty career that has 
been chalked out for you. I have been an usher at a board- 
ing school myself ; and may I die by an anodyne necklace, ^ but 
I had rather be an under turnkey in Newgate.^ I was up early 
and late ; I was browbeaten by the master, hated for my ugly face 
by the mistress, worried by the boys within, and never permitted 
to stir out to meet civility abroad. But are you sure you are fit 
for a school? Let me examine you a little. Have you been 
bred an apprentice to the business?’ ‘No.’ ‘Then you won’t 
do for a school. Can you dress the boys’ hair? ’ ‘No.’ ‘Then 
you won’t do for a school. Have you had the smallpox ? ’ 
‘No.’ ‘ Then you won’t do for a school. Can you lie three in 

a bed? ’ ‘ No.’ ‘Then you will never do for a school. Have 

you got a good stomach ? ’ ‘ Yes.’ ‘ Then you will by no means 
do for a school. No, sir, if you are for a genteel, easy profes- 
sion, bind yourself seven years an apprentice to turn a cutler’s 
wheel; but avoid a school by any means. Yet come,’ continued 
he, ‘ I see you are a lad of spirit and some learning ; what do 
you think of commencing author, like me? You have read in 
books, no doubt, of men of genius starving at the trade. At 
present I’ll show you forty very dull fellows about town that live 
by it in opulence ; all honest, jog-trot men, who go on smoothly 
and dully, and write history and politics, and are praised, — men, 
sir, who, had they been bred cobblers, would all their lives have 
only mended shoes, but never made them.’ 

“Finding that there was no great degree of gentility affixed 
to the character of an usher, I resolved to accept vhis proposals; 
and having the highest respect for literature, hailed the antiqua 

1 Anodyne necklace,” i.e., a hangman’s rope. 

2 ^ famous prison in London* 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


I2I 


mater^ of Grub Street ^ with reverence. I thought it my glory 
to pursue a track which Dryden and Otway trod before me. I 
considered the goddess of this region as the parent of excellence ; 
and however an intercourse with the world might give us good 
sense, the poverty she entailed I supposed to be the nurse of 
genius. Big with these reflections, I sat down, and finding that 
the best things remained to be said on the wrong side, I resolved 
to write a book that should be wholly new. I therefore dressed 
up three paradoxes with some ingenuity. They were false, indeed, 
but they were new.^ The jewels of truth have been so often im- 
ported by others that nothing was left for me to import but some 
splendid things that at a distance looked every bit as well. Wit- 
ness, ye powers, what fancied importance sat perched upon my 
quill while I was writing ! The whole learned world, I made 
no doubt, would rise to oppose my systems ; but then I was pre- 
pared to oppose the whole learned world. Like the porcupine, 
I sat self-collected, with a quill pointed against every opposer.” 

“Well said, my boy,” cried I ; “and what subject did you treat 
upon? I hope you did not pass over the importance of monog- 
amy. But I interrupt; go on. You published your paradoxes; 
well, and what did the learned world say to your paradoxes? ” 

“ Sir,” replied my son, “ the learned world said nothing to my 
paradoxes ; nothing at all, sir. Every man of them was employed 
in praising his friends and himself, or condemning his enemies ; 

1 Ancient mother; a personification. which here refers to “history and 
politics ” and the compiling and editing of books, from which poor authors 
gained a living. 

2 A wretched part of London, in which starving writers grouped themselves 
in Pope^s and Goldsmith’s times. 

3 I remember,” said Dr. Johnson, “ a passage in Goldsmith’s Vicar of 
Wakefield which he was afterwards fool enough to expunge: ‘ I do not love 
a man who is zealous for nothing.’ There was another fine passage, too, 
which he struck out : ‘ When I was a young man, being anxious to distin- 
guish myself, I was perpetually starting new propositions. But I soon gave 
this over ; for I found that generally what was new was false.’ ” (Boswell, 
vol. vii., p. 24.) 


122 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


and unfortunately, as I had neither, I suffered the cruelest mor- 
tification, — neglect. 

“As I was meditating one day in a coffeehouse on the fate of 
my paradoxes, a little man, happening to enter the room, placed 
himself in the box ^ before me, and after some preliminary dis- 
course, finding me to be a scholar, drew out a bundle of pro- 
posals, begging me to subscribe to a new edition he was going 
to give to the world of Propertius ^ with notes. This demand 
necessarily produced a reply that I had no money ; and that con- 
cession led him to inquire into the nature of my expectations. 
Finding that my expectations were just as great as my purse, ‘ I 
see,’ cried he, ‘you are unacquainted with the town; I’ll teach 
you a part of it. Look at these proposals; upon these very 
proposals I have subsisted very comfortably for twelve years. 
The moment a nobleman returns from his travels, a Creolian ^ 
arrives from Jamaica, or a dowager^ from her country seat, I 
strike for a subscription. I first besiege their hearts with flattery, 
and then pour in my proposals at the breach. If they subscribe 
readily the first time, I renew my request to beg a dedication fee. 
If they let me have that, I smite them once more for engraving 
their coat of arms at the top. Thus,’ continued he, ‘ I live by 
vanity and laugh at it. But between ourselves, I am now too 
well known ; I should be glad to borrow your face a bit. A 
nobleman of distinction has just returned from Italy; my face is 
familiar to his porter; but if you bring this copy of verses, my 
life for it you succeed, and we divide the spoil.’ ” 

“ Bless us, George ! ” cried I, “ and is this the employment of 

1 A compartment in the common room of a public house. 

2 A Latin poet of the century before Christ, whose writings are vague, in- 
direct, full of learned allusions, and difficult to understand. Hence the value 
of “ a new edition ” which the “ little man ” would publish. 

3 A Creole; that is, t»ne born in America, but of French or Spanish de- 
scent by either parent. 

^ The widow of a person of rank, to distinguish her from the wife of her 
husband’s heir. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


123 


poets now? Do men of their exalted talents thus stoop to beg- 
gary? Can they so far disgrace their calling as to make a vile 
traffic of praise for bread? ” 

“ Oh no, sir,” returned he, “ a true poet can never be so base ; 
for wherever there is genius, there is pride. The creatures I now 
describe are only beggars in rhyme. The real poet, as he braves 
every hardship for fame, so he is equally a coward to contempt ; 
and none but those who are unworthy protection condescend to 
solicit it. 

“ Having a mind too proud to stoop to such indignities, and 
yet a fortune too humble to hazard a second attempt for fame, 
I was now obliged to take a middle course, and write for bread. 
But I was unqualified for a profession where mere industry alone 
was to insure success. I could not suppress my lurking passion 
for applause, but usually consumed that time in efforts after ex- 
cellence which takes up but little room, when it should have been 
more advantageously employed in the diffusive productions of 
fruitful mediocrity. My little piece would therefore come forth 
in the midst of periodical publications, unnoticed and unknown. 
The public were more importantly employed than to observe the 
easy simplicity of my style, or the harmony of my periods. Sheet 
after sheet was thrown off to oblivion. My essays were buried' 
among the essays upon liberty. Eastern tales, and cures for the 
bite of a mad dog, while Philautos, Philalethes, Philelutheros, and 
Philanthropes all wrote better, because they wrote faster, than I. 

“ Now, therefore, I began to associate with none but disap- 
pointed authors like myself, who praised, deplored, and despised 
each other. The satisfaction we found in every celebrated writer’s 
attempts was inversely as their merits. I found that no genius in 
another could please me. My unfortunate paradoxes had entirely 
dried up that source of comfort. I could neither read nor write 
with satisfaction ; for excellence in another way was my aversion, 
and writing was my trade. 

“ In the midst of these gloomy reflections, as I was one day 
sitting on a bench in St. James’s Park, a young gentleman of dis- 


124 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


tinction, who had been my intimate acquaintance at the university, 
approached me. We saluted each other with some hesitation ; 
he almost ashamed of being known to one who made so shabby 
an appearance, and I afraid of a repulse. But my suspicions 
soon vanished; for Ned Thornhill was at the bottom a very 
good-natured fellow.” 

“ What did you say, George ? ” interrupted I. Thornhill, 
was not that his name? It can certainly be no other than my 
landlord.” “Bless me!” cried Mrs. Arnold, “is Mr. Thornhill 
so near a neighbor of yours ? He has long been a friend to our 
family, and we expect a visit from him shortly.” 

“ My friend’s first care,” continued my son, “ was to alter my 
appearance by a very fine suit of his own clothes, and then I was 
admitted to his table, upon the footing of half friend, half under- 
ling. My business was to attend him at auctions, to put him in 
spirits when he sat for his picture, to take the left hand in his 
chariot when not filled by another, and to assist at tattering a kip, 
as the phrase was, when he had a mind for a frolic. Besides this, 
I had twenty other little employments in the family. I was to 
do many small things without bidding ; to carry the corkscrew ; 
to stand godfather to all the butler’s children; to sing when I 
was bid ; to be never out of humor ; always to be humble, and, 
if I could, to be very happy. 

“ In this honorable post, however, I was not without a rival. 
A captain of marines, who was formed for the place by nature, 
opposed me in my patron’s affections. As this gentleman made 
it the study of his life to be acquainted with lords, though he was 
dismissed from several for his stupidity, yet he found many of 
them who were as dull as himself, that permitted his assiduities. 
As flattery was his trade, he practiced it with the easiest address 
imaginable ; but it came awkward and stiff from me, and as every 
day my patron’s desire of flattery increased, so every hour, being 
better acquainted with his defects, I became more unwilling to 
give it. Thus I was once more fairly going to give up the field 
to the captain, when my friend found occasion for my assistance. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


125 


This was nothing less than to fight a duel for him, with a gentle- 
man whose sister it was pretended he had used ill. I readily 
complied with his request, and though I see you are displeased 
with my conduct, yet, as it was a debt indispensably due to friend- 
ship, I could not refuse. I undertook the affair and disarmed 
my antagonist. This piece of service was repaid with the warm- 
est professions of gratitude ; but as my friend was to leave town 
in a few days, he knew no other method of serving me but by 
recommending me to his uncle. Sir William Thornhill, and an- 
other nobleman of great distinction who enjoyed a post under 
the government. When he was gone, my first care was to carry 
his recommendatory letter to his uncle, a man whose character 
for every virtue was universal, yet just. I was received by his 
servants with the most hospitable smiles; for the looks of the 
domestics ever transmit their master’s benevolence. Being shown 
into a grand apartment, where Sir William soon came to me, I 
delivered my message and letter, which he read, and after paus- 
ing some minutes, ‘ Pray, sir,’ cried he, * inform me what you 
have done for my kinsman to deserve this warm recommendation. 
But I suppose, sir, I guess your merits ; you have fought for him ; 
and so you would expect a reward from me for being the instru- 
ment of his vices. I wish, sincerely wish, that my present refusal 
may be some punishment for your guilt ; but still more, that it 
may be some inducement to your repentance.’ The severity of 
this rebuke I bore patiently, because I knew it was just. My 
whole expectations now, therefore, lay in my letter to the great 
man. As the doors of the nobility are almost ever beset with 
beggars, all ready to thrust in some sly petition, I found it no 
easy matter to gain admittance. However, after bribing the 
servants with half my worldly fortune, I was at last shown into 
a spacious apartment, my letter being previously sent up for his 
lordship’s inspection. During this anxious interval I had full 
time to look around me. Everything was grand and of happy 
contrivance ; the paintings, the furniture, the gildings, petrified 
me with awe, and raised my idea of the owner. ‘Ah,’ thought I 


126 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 


to myself, ‘ how very great must the possessor of all these things 
be, who carries in his head the business of the state, and whose 
house displays half the wealth ot a kingdom; sure his genius 
must be unfathomable ! ’ During these awful reflections I heard 
a step come heavily forward. Ah, this is the great man himself ! 
No, it was only a chambermaid. Another foot was heard soon 
after. This must be he ! No, it was only the great man’s valet 
de chambre. At last his lordship actually made his appearance. 
‘Are you,’ cried he, ‘the bearer of this here letter ? ’ I answered 
with a bow. ‘ I learn by this,’ continued he, ‘ as how that ’ — 
But just at that instant a servant delivered him a card, and with- 
out taking further notice, he went out of the room, and left me 
to digest my own happiness at leisure ; I saw no more of him till 
told by a footman that his lordship was going to his coach at the 
door. Down I immediately followed, and joined my voice to that 
of three or four more, who came, like me, to petition for favors. 
His lordship, however, went too fast for us, and was gaining his 
chariot door with large strides, when I hallooed out to know if 
I was to have any reply. He was by this time got in, and mut- 
tered an answer, half of which only I heard ; the other half was 
lost in the rattling of his chariot wheels. I stood for some time 
with my neck stretched out, in the posture of one that was listen- 
ing to catch the glorious sounds, till looking round me, I found 
myself alone at his lordship’s gate. 

“My patience,” continued my son, “was now quite exhausted. 
Stung with the thousand indignities I had met with, I was willing 
to cast myself away, and only wanted the gulf to receive me. I 
regarded myself as one of those vile things that nature designed 
should be thrown by into her lumber room, there to perish in 
obscurity. I had still, however, half a guinea left, and of that I 
thought Fortune herself should not deprive me ; but in order to 
be siure of this, I was resolved to go instantly and spend it, while 
I had it, and then trust to occurrences for the rest. As I was 
going along with this resolution, it happened that Mr. Crispe’s 
office seemed invitingly open to give me a welcome reception. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 


127 


In this office Mr. Crispe kindly offers all his Majesty’s subjects a 
generous promise of thirty pounds a year, for which promise all 
they give in return is their liberty for life, and permission to let 
him transport them to America as slaves. I was happy at finding 
a place where I could lose my fears in desperation, and entered 
this cell (for it had the appearance of one) with the devotion of 
a monastic. Here I found a number of poor creatures, all in cir- 
cumstances like myself, expecting the arrival of Mr. Crispe, pre- 
senting a true epitome of English impatience. Each untractable 
soul at variance with Fortune wreaked her injuries on their own 
hearts ; but Mr. Crispe a-t last came down, and all our murmurs 
were hushed. He deigned to regard me with an air of peculiar 
approbation, and indeed he was the first man who for a month 
past had talked to me with smiles. After a few questions, he 
found I was fit for everything in the world. He paused awhile 
upon the properest means of providing for me, and slapping his 
forehead as if he had found it, assured me that there was at that 
time an embassy talked of from the Synod ^ of Pennsylvania to 
the Chickasaw Indians, and that he would use his interest to get 
me made secretary. I knew in my own heart that the fellow 
lied, and yet his promise gave me pleasure, there was something 
so magnificent in the sound. I fairly, therefore, divided my half 
guinea, one half of which went to be added to his thirty thou- 
sand pounds, and with the other half I resolved to go to the next 
tavern,' to be there more happy than he. 

“ As I was going out with that resolution, I was met at the 
door by the captain of a ship with whom I had formerly some 
little acquaintance, and he agreed to be my companion over a 
bowl of punch. As I never chose to make a secret of my cir- 
cumstances, he assured me that I was upon the very point of 
ruin in listening to the office keeper’s promises, for that he only 
designed to sell me to the plantations. ' But,’ continued he, ‘ I 

t The assembly which controlled the affairs of Pennsylvania after its estab- 
lishment by William Penn, and which was maintained as a government to 
Revolutionary times. 


128 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


fancy you might, by a much shorter voyage, be very easily put 
into a genteel way of bread. Take my advice. My ship sails 
to-morrow for Amsterdam. What if you go in her as a passen- 
ger ? The moment you land, all you have to do is to teach the 
Dutchmen English, and I’ll warrant you’ll get pupils and money 
enough. I suppose you understand English,’ added he, ‘ by this 
time, or the deuce is in it.’ I confidently assured him of that, 
but expressed a doubt whether the Dutch would be willing to 
learn English. He affirmed with an oath that they would be 
fond of it to distraction ; and upon that affirmation I agreed with 
his proposal, and embarked the next day to teach the Dutch Eng- 
lish in Holland. The wind was fair, our voyage short, and after 
having paid my passage with half my movables, I found myself, 
fallen as from the skies, a stranger in one of the principal streets 
of Amsterdam. In this situation I was unwilling to let any time 
pass unemployed in teaching. I addressed myself, therefore, to 
two or three of those I met, whose appearance seemed most prom- 
ising; but it was impossible to make ourselves mutually under- 
stood. It was not till this very moment I recollected that in 
order to teach the Dutchmen English it was necessary that 
they should first teach me Dutch. How I came to overlook so 
obvious an objection is to me amazing ; but certain it is I over- 
looked it. 

“This scheme thus blown up, I had some thoughts of fairly 
shipping back to England again ; but falling into company with 
an Irish student who was returning from Louvain,^ our conversa- 
tion turning upon topics of literature (for, by the way, it may be 
observed that I always forgot the meanness of my circumstances 
when I could converse upon such subjects), from him I learned 
that there were not two men in his whole university who under- 

1 A town not far from Brussels. Its university during several centuries 
stood among the first of Europe. “ No one,” said Erasmus, “ could gradu- 
ate at Louvain without knowledge, manners, and age.” It was suspended 
by the French in 1797. Since then it has been refounded as a denominational 
institution. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


129 


Stood Greek. This amazed me. I instantly resolved to travel 
to Louvain, and there live by teaching Greek ; and in this design 
I was heartened by my brother student, who threw out some hints 
that a fortune might be got by it. 

“ I set boldly forward the next morning. Every day lessened 
the burden of my movables, like ^sop and his basket of bread ; 
for I paid them for my lodgings to the Dutch as I traveled on. 
When I came to Louvain I was resolved not to go sneaking to 
the lower professors, but openly tender my talents to the prin- 
cipal himself. I went, had admittance, and offered him my ser- 
vice as a master of the Greek language, which I had been told 
was a desideratum ^ in his university. The principal seemed at 
first to doubt of my abilities ; but of these I offered to convince 
him by turning a part of any Greek author he should fix upon 
into Latin. Finding me perfectly earnest in my proposal, he 
addressed me thus: 'You see me, young man; I never learned 
Greek, and I don’t find that I have ever missed it. I have had 
a doctor’s cap and gown without Greek; I have ten thousand 
florins a year without Greek ; I eat heartily without Greek ; and 
in short,’ continued he, ' as I don’t know Greek, I do not believe 
there is any good in it.’ 

“ I was now too far from home to think of returning ; so I 
resolved to go forward. I had some knowledge of music, with 
a tolerable voice, and now turned what was my amusement into 
a present means of subsistence. I passed among the harmless 
peasants of Flanders, and among such of the French as were 
poor enough to be very merry ; for I ever found them sprightly 
in proportion to their wants. Whenever I approached a peasant’s 
house towards nightfall, I played one of my most merry tunes, 
and that procured me not only a lodging, but subsistence for 
the next day. I once or twice attempted to play for people of 
fashion ; but they always thought my performance odious, and 
never rewarded me even with a trifle. This was to me the more 
extraordinary, as whenever I used in better days to play for com- 
1 Something desirable. 


130 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


pany, when playing was my amusement, my music never failed 
to throw them into raptures, and the ladies especially ; but as it 
was now my only means, it was received with contempt, — a 
proof how ready the world is to underrate those talents by which 
a man is supported. 

“In this manner I proceeded to Paris, with no design but just 
to look about me, and then to go forward. The people of Paris 
are much fonder of strangers that have money than of those that 
have wit. As I could not boast much of either, I was no great 
favorite. After walking about the town four or five days, and 
seeing the outsides of the best houses, 1 was preparing to leave 
this retreat of venal hospitality, when, passing through one of the 
principal streets, whom should I meet but our cousin to whom 
you first recommended me. This meeting was very agreeable to 
me, and I believe not displeasing to him. He inquired into the 
nature of my journey to Paris, and informed me of his own busi- 
ness there, which was to collect pictures, medals, intaglios, ^ and 
antiques of all kinds for a gentleman in London, who had just 
stepped into taste and a large fortune. I was the more surprised 
at seeing our cousin pitched upon for this office, as he himself 
had often assured me he knew nothing of the matter. Upon 
asking how he had been taught the art of a cognoscente 2 so very 
suddenly, he assured me that nothing was more easy. The whole 
secret consisted in a strict adherence to two rules ; the one, always 
to obser^^e the picture might have been better if the painter had 
taken more pains; and the other, to praise the works of Pietro 
Perugino.3 *But,’ says he, ^as I once taught you how to be an 
author in London, I’ll now undertake to instruct you in the art 
of picture buying at Paris.’ 

“With this proposal I very readily closed, as it was living, 
and now all my ambition was to live. I went, therefore, to his 

1 A semi-precious stone, in the surface of which a design is cut. 

2 A connoisseur ; a critical judge of an art. 

3 An Italian master (1446-1523) whose paintings are still treasured for 
their fine color and deep feeling. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 131 

lodgings, improved my dress by his assistance, and after some 
time accompanied him to auctions of pictures, where the Eng- 
lish gentry were expected to be purchasers. I was not a little 
surprised at his intimacy with people of the best fashion, who re- 
ferred themselves to his taste or judgment upon every picture or 
medal, as to an unerring standard of taste. He made very good 
use of my assistance upon these occasions ; for when asked his 
opinion, he would gravely take me aside and ask mine, shrug, 
look wise, return, and assure the company that he could give no 
opinion upon an affair of so much importance. Yet there was 
sometimes an occasion for a more important assurance. I re- 
member to have seen him, after giving his opinion that the color- 
ing of a picture was not mellow enough, very deliberately take 
a brush with brown varnish, that was accidentally lying by, and 
rub it over the piece with great composure before all the com- 
pany, and then ask if he had not improved the tint. 

*‘When he had finished his commission in Paris, he left me 
strongly recommended to several men of distinction as a person 
very proper for a traveling tutor; and after some time I was 
employed in that capacity by a gentleman who brought his ward 
to Paris in order to set him forward on his tour through Europe. 
I was to be the young gentleman’s governor, but with a proviso 
that he should always be permitted to govern himself. My pupil, 
in fact, understood the art of guiding in money concerns much 
better than I. He was heir to a fortune of about two hundred 
thousand pounds, left him by an uncle in the West Indies; and 
his guardians, to qualify him for the management of it, had 
bound him an apprentice to an attorney. Thus avarice was his 
prevailing passion. All his questions on the road were, how money 
might be saved ; which was the least expensive course of travel ; 
whether anything could be bought that would turn to account 
when disposed of again in London. Such curiosities on the way 
as could be seen for nothing, he was ready enough to look at ; 
but if the sight of them was to be paid for, he usually asserted 
that he had been told they were not worth seeing. He never 


132 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


paid a bill that he would not observe how amazingly expensive 
traveling was, and all this though he was not yet twenty-one. 
When arrived at Leghorn, ^ as we took a walk to look at the port 
and shipping, he inquired the expense of the passage by sea home 
to England. This he was informed was but a trifle compared to 
his returning by land. He was therefore unable to withstand the 
temptation ; so, paying me the small part of my salary that was 
due, he took leave and embarked, with only one attendant, for 
London. 

“ I now, therefore, was left once more upon the world at large ; 
but then it was a thing I was used to. However, my skill in 
music could avail me nothing in a country where every peasant 
was a better musician than I ; but by this time I had acquired 
another talent which answered my purpose as well, and this was 
a skill in disputation. In all the foreign universities and convents 
there are, upon certain days, philosophical theses ^ maintained 
against every adventitious ^ disputant, for which, if the champion 
opposes with any dexterity, he can claim a gratuity in money, a 
dinner, and a bed for one night. In this manner, therefore, I 
fought my way towards England, walked along from city to city, 
examined mankind more nearly, and, if I may so express it, saw 
both sides of the picture. My remarks, however, are but few. 
I found that monarchy was the best government for the poor to 
live in, and commonwealths for the rich. I found that riches in 
general were in every country another name for freedom; and 
that no man is so fond of liberty himself as not to be desirous 
of subjecting the will of some individuals in society to his own. 

“ Upon my arrival in England I resolved to pay my respects 
first to you, and then to enlist as a volunteer in the first expedi- 
tion that was going forward ; but on my journey down my reso- 
lutions were changed by meeting an old acquaintance, who I 

1 A seaport town in northwestern Italy. 

2 “ Philosophical theses,” i.e., statements of general principles, which are 
advanced and offered for defense by argument. 

3 Chance. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


133 


found belonged to a company of comedians that were going to 
make a summer campaign in the country. The company seemed 
not much to disapprove of me for an associate. They all, how- 
ever, apprised me of the importance of the task at which I aimed ; 
that the public was a many-headed monster, and that only such 
as had very good heads could please it ; that acting was not to 
be learned in a day, and that without some traditional shrugs, 
which had been on the stage, and only on the stage, these hun- 
dred years, I could never pretend to please. The next difficulty 
was in fitting me with parts, as almost every character was in 
keeping. I was driven for some time from one character to 
another, till at last Horatio was fixed upon, which the presence 
of the present company has happily hindered me from acting.” 


CHAPTER XXI. 

THE SHORT CONTINUANCE OF FRIENDSHIP AMONG THE VICIOUS, WHICH 
IS COEVAL ONLY WITH MUTUAL SATISFACTION. 

M y son’s account was too long to be delivered at once ; the 
first part of it was begun that night, and he was conclud- 
ing the rest after dinner the next day, when the appearance of 
Mr. Thornhill’s equipage at the door seemed to make a pause in 
the general satisfaction. The butler, who was now become my 
friend in the family, informed me with a whisper that the Squire 
had already made some overtures to Miss Wilmot, and that her 
aunt and uncle seemed highly to approve the match. Upon 
Mr. Thornhill’s entering, he seemed, at seeing my son and me, 
to start back; but I readily imputed that to surprise, and not 
displeasure. However, upon our advancing to salute him, he re- 
turned our greeting with the most apparent candor ; and after a 
short time his presence served only to increase the general good 
humor. 


134 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 


After tea he called me aside to inquire after my daughter; 
but upon my informing him that my inquiry was unsuccessful, 
he seemed greatly surprised ; adding that he had been since fre- 
quently at my house in order to comfort the rest of my family, 
whom he left perfectly well. He then asked if I had communi- 
cated her misfortune to Miss Wilmot or my son ; and upon my 
replying that I had not told them as yet, he greatly approved 
my prudence and precaution, desiring me by all means to keep 
it a secret; “for at best,” cried he, “it is but divulging one’s 
infamy; and perhaps Miss Livy may not be so unfortunate as 
we all imagine.” We were interrupted by a servant who came 
to ask the Squire in, to stand up at country dances ; so that he 
left me quite pleased with the interest he seemed to take in my 
concerns. His addresses, however, to Miss.Wilmot were too 
obvious to be mistaken; and yet she seemed not perfectly 
pleased, but bore them rather in compliance to the will of her 
aunt than real inclination. I had even the satisfaction to see her 
lavish some kind looks upon my unfortunate son, which the other 
could neither extort by his fortune nor assiduity. Mr. Thorn- 
hill’s seeming composure, however, not a little surprised me ; we 
had now continued here a week at the pressing instances of Mr. 
Arnold, but each day the more tenderness Miss Wilmot showed 
my son, Mr. Thornhill’s friendship seemed proportionably to in- 
crease for him. 

He had formerly made us the most kind assurance of using 
his interest to serve the family ; but now his generosity was not 
confined to promises alone. The morning I designed for my 
departure, Mr. Thornhill came to me with looks of real pleasure, 
to inform me of a piece of service he had done for his friend 
George. This was nothing less than his having procured him 
an ensign’s commission in one of the regiments that was going 
to the West Indies, for which he had promised but one hundred 
pounds, his interest having been sufficient to get an abatement ot 
the other two. “ As for this trifling piece of service,” continued 
the young gentleman, “ I desire no other reward but the pleasure 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


135 


of having served my friend ; and as for the hundred pounds to 
be paid, if you are unable to raise it yourselves, I will advance 
it, and you shall repay me at your leisure.” This was a favor 
we wanted words to express our sense of ; I readily, therefore, 
gave my bond for the money, and testified as much gratitude as 
if I never intended to pay. 

George was to depart for town the next day to secure his 
commission, in pursuance of his generous patron’s directions, 
who judged it highly expedient to use dispatch, lest in the mean 
time another should step in with more advantageous proposals. 
The next morning, therefore, our young soldier was early pre- 
pared for his departure, and seemed the only person among us 
that was not affected by it. Neither the fatigues and dangers 
he was going to encounter, nor the friends and sweetheart — for 
Miss Wilmot actually loved him — he was leaving behind, any 
way damped his spirits. After he had taken leave of the rest of 
the company, I gave him all I had — my blessing. And now, 
my boy,” cried I, “ thou art going to fight for thy country ; re- 
member how thy brave grandfather fought for his sacred king, 
when loyalty among Britons was a virtue. Go, my boy, and 
imitate him in all but his misfortunes, if it was a misfortune to 
die with Lord Falkland.^ Go, my boy, and if you fall, though 
distant, exposed, and unwept by those that love you, the most 
precious tears are those with which heaven bedews the unburied 
head of a soldier.” 

The next morning I took leave of the good family that had 
been kind enough to. entertain me so long, not without several 
expressions of gratitude to Mr. Thornhill for his late bounty. I 
left them in the enjoyment of all that happiness which affluence 
and good breeding procure, and returned towards home, despair- 
ing of ever finding my daughter more, but sending a sigh to 
Heaven to spare and forgive her. I was now come within about 

1 Lord Falkland (1610-43) devoted himself with striking single-minded- 
ness to the ill fortunes of Charles !., and fell at the battle of Newbury, cry- 
ing “ Peace, peace!” 


136 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


twenty miles of home, having hired a horse to carry me, as I was 
yet but weak, and comforted myself with the hopes of soon see- 
ing all I held dearest upon earth. But the night coming on, I 
put up at a little public house by the roadside, and asked for the 
landlord’s company. We sat beside his kitchen fire, which was 
the best room in the house, and chatted on politics and the news 
of the country. We happened, among other topics, to talk of 
young Squire Thornhill, who, the host assured me, was hated as 
much as his uncle Sir William, who sometimes came down to the 
country, was loved. 

As we continued our discourse in this manner, his wife, who 
had been out to get change, returned, and perceiving that her 
husband was enjoying a pleasure in which she was not a sharer, 
she asked him in an angry tone what he did there ; to which he 
only replied in an ironical way, by drinking her health. “ Mr. 
Symmonds,” cried she, “ you use me very ill, and I’ll bear it no 
longer. Here three parts of the business is left for me to do, 
and the fourth left unfinished ; while you do nothing but soak 
with the guests all day long.” I now found what she would be 
at, and immediately poured her out a glass, which she received 
with a courtesy, and drinking towards my good health, “ Sir,” re- 
sumed she, ‘^it is not so much for the value of the wine I am 
angry, but one cannot help it when the house is going out of the 
windows. If the customers or guests are to be dunned, all the 
burden lies upon my back; he’d as lief eat that glass as budge 
after them himself. There, now, above stairs, we have a young 
woman who has come to take up her lodgings here, and I don’t 
believe she has got any money, by her overcivility. I am cer- 
tain she is very slow of payment, and I wish she were put in 
mind of it.” “What signifies minding her ? ” cried the host ; “ if 
she be slow she is sure.” “ I don’t know that,” replied the wife ; 
“ but I know that I am sure she has been here a fortnight, and 
we have not yet seen the cross 1 of her money.” “ I suppose, 
my dear,” cried he, “we shall have it all in a lump.” “In a 
I Coins were sometimes stamped with a cross. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


137 


lump ! ” cried the other ; I hope we may get it any way ; and 
that I am resolved we will this very night, or out she tramps, 
bag and baggage.” " Consider, my dear,” cried the husband, 

“ she is a gentlewoman and deserves more respect.” As for 
the matter of that,” returned the hostess, gentle or simple, out 
she shall pack with a sassarara.^ Gentry may be good things 
where they take ; but for my part, I never saw much good of 
them at the sign of the Harrow.” Thus sa 3 dng, she ran up a 
narrow flight of stairs that went from the kitchen to a room over- 
head ; and I soon perceived, by the loudness of her voice and 
the bitterness of her reproaches, that no money was to be had 
from her lodger. I could hear her remonstrances very distinctly : 
“Out, I say ; pack out this moment ! tramp ! or I’ll give thee a 
mark thou won’t be the better for this three months. What, you 
trumpery, to come and take up an honest house without cross 
or coin to bless yourself with! come along, I say.” “O dear 
madam,” cried the stranger, “pity me; pity a poor abandoned 
creature for one night, and death will soon do the rest.” I in- 
stantly knew the voice of my poor child Olivia. I flew to her 
rescue, while the woman was dragging her along by the hair, 
and I caught the dear forlorn girl in my arms. “Welcome, any- 
way welcome, my dearest lost one, my treasure, to your poor old 
father’s bosom ! Though the vicious forsake thee, there is yet 
one in the world that will never forsake thee ; though thou hadst 
ten thousand faults to answer for, he will forget them all.” “ O 
my own dear” — for minutes she could say no more — “my own 
dearest good papa 1 Could angels be kinder 1 How do I de- ^ 
serve so much ! I hate myself to be a reproach to such good- 
ness. You can’t forgive me, I know you cannot.” “Yes, my 
child, from my heart I do forgive thee ! Only repent, and we 
both shall yet be happy. We shall see many pleasant days yet, 
my Olivia 1 ” “Ah 1 never, sir, never. The rest of my wretched 
life must be infamy abroad and shame at home. But, alas! 
papa, you look paler than you used to do. Could such a thing 
1 A legal writ ; hence any telling, effective act, as a blow. 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 


13S 

as I am give you so much uneasiness ? Surely you have too 
much wisdom to take my miseries upon yourself.” Our wis- 
dom, young woman ” — replied I. Ah ! why so cold a name, 
papa ? ” cried she. This is the first time you ever called me 
by so cold a name.” " I ask pardon, my darling,” returned I ; 
“ but I was going to observe that wisdom makes but a slow de- 
fense against trouble, though at last a sure one.” 

The landlady now returned to know if we did not choose a 
more genteel apartment, to which assenting, we were shown a 
room where we could converse more freely. After we had talked 
ourselves into some degree of tranquillity, I could not avoid 
desiring some account of the gradations that led to her present 
wretched situation. “ That villain, sir,” said she, from the first 
day of our meeting, made me honorable proposals.” 

Villain, indeed ! ” cried I ; “ and yet it in some measure sur- 
prises me how a person of Mr. Burchell’s good sense and seem- 
ing honor could be guilty of such deliberate baseness, and thus 
step into a family to undo it.” 

“ My dear papa,” returned my daughter, “ you labor under a 
strange mistake. Mr. Burchell never attempted to deceive me ; 
instead of that, he took every opportunity of privately admon- 
ishing me against the artifices of Mr. Thornhill, who I now find 
was even worse than he represented him.” “ Mr. Thornhill,” 
interrupted I — can it be ? ” “ Yes, sir,” returned she ; it was 
Mr. Thornhill who employed the two ladies, as he called them, 
to decoy us up to London. Their artifices, you may remember, 
would have certainly succeeded, but for Mr. Burchell’s letter, who 
directed those reproaches at them which we all applied to our- 
selves. How he came to have so much influence as to defeat 
their intentions still remains a secret to me ; but I am convinced 
he was ever our warmest, sincerest friend.” 

“You amaze me, my dear,” cried I ; “but now I find my first 
suspicions of Mr. Thornhill’s baseness were too well grounded ; 
but he can triumph in security, for he is rich and we are poor. 
But tell me, my child, sure it was no small temptation that could 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 139 

thus obliterate all the impressions of such an education, and so 
virtuous a disposition, as thine ? ” 

“ Indeed, sir,” replied she, “ he owes all his triumph to the de- 
sire I had of making him, and not myself, happy. I knew that 
the ceremony of our marriage, which was privately performed by 
a priest, was no way binding, and that I had nothing to trust to 
but his honor.” “What ! ” interrupted I, “and were you indeed 
married by a priest, and in orders ? ” “ Indeed, sir, we were,” 

replied she, “ though we were both sworn to conceal his name.” 
“Why, then, my child, come to my arms again; and now you 
are a thousand times more welcome than before.; for you are 
now his wife to all intents and purposes ; nor can all the laws of 
man, though written upon tables of adamant, lessen the force of 
that sacred connection.” 

“ Alas ! papa,” replied she, “ you are but little acquainted with 
his villainies ; he has been married already by the same priest to 
six or eight wives more, whom, like me, he has deceived and 
abandoned.” 

“ Has he so ? ” cried I ; “ then we must hang 1 the priest, and 
you shall inform against him to-morrow.” “ But, sir,” returned 
she, “will that be right when I am sworn to secrecy ? ” “ My 

dear,” I replied, “if you have made such a promise, I can- 
not, nor will I, tempt you to break it. Even though it may 
benefit the public, you must not inform against him. In all 
human institutions a smaller evil is allowed to procure a greater 
good, — as, in politics, a province may be given to secure a king- 
dom; in medicine, a limb may be lopped off to preserve the 
body, — but in religion the law is written, and inflexible, never to 
do evil. And this law, my child, is right; for otherwise, if we 
commit a smaller evil to procure a greater good, certain guilt 
would be thus incurred in expectation of contingent advantage. 
And though the advantage should certainly follow, yet the inter- 
val between commission and advantage, which is allowed to be 

1 Hold in a state of inaction ; frequently used in this sense tb refer to a 
jury. 


140 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


guilty, may be that in which we are called away to answer for 
the things we have done, and the volume of human actions is 
closed forever. But I interrupt you, my dear; go on.” 

“ The very next morning,” continued she, “ I found what little 
expectation I was to have from his sincerity. That very morning 
he introduced me to two unhappy women more, whom, like me, 
he had deceived. I loved him too tenderly to bear such rivals 
in his affections, and strove to forget my infamy in a tumult of 
pleasures. With this view I danced, dressed, and talked, but still 
was unhappy. The gentlemen who visited there told me every 
moment of the power of my charms, and this only contributed 
to increase my melancholy, as I had thrown all their power quite 
away. Thus each day I grew more pensive, and he more inso- 
lent. Need I describe, sir, how his ingratitude stung me ? I 
desired to part. As I was going, he offered me a purse ; but I 
flung it at him with indignation, and burst from him in a rage, 
that for a while kept me insensible of the miseries of my situa- 
tion. But I soon looked round me, and saw myself an unhappy 
thing, without one friend in the world to apply to. Just in that 
interval a stagecoach happening to pass by, I took a place, it 
being my only aim to be driven at a distance from a wretch I 
despised and detested. I was set down here, where, since my 
arrival, my own anxiety and this woman’s unkindness have been 
my only companions. The horns of pleasure that I have passed 
with my mamma and sister now grow painful to me. Their sor- 
rows are much; but mine are greater than theirs, for mine are 
mixed with infamy.” 

“ Have patience, my child,” cried I, “ and I hope things will 
yet be better. Take some repose to-night, and to-morrow I’ll 
carry you home to your mother and the rest of the family, from 
whom you will receive a kind reception. Poor woman ! this 
has gone to her heart; but she loves you still, Olivia, and will 
forget it.” 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 


141 


CHAPTER XXIL 


OFFENSES ARE EASILY PARDONED WHERE THERE IS LOVE AT BOTTOM. 

HE next morning I took my daughter behind me, and set 



X out on my return home. As we traveled along, I strove 
by every persuasion to calm her sorrows and fears^and to arm 
her with resolution to bear the presence of her offended mother. 
I took every opportunity, from the prospect of a fine country 
through which we passed, to observe how much kinder Heaven 
was to us than we are to each other, and that the misfortunes of 
nature’s making were very few. I assured her that she should 
never perceive any change in my affections, and that during my 
life, which yet might be long, she might depend upon a guardian 
and instructor. I armed her against the censures of the world, 
showed her that books were sweet, unreproaching companions to 
the miserable, and that if they could not bring us to enjoy life, 
they would at least teach us to endure it. 

The hired horse that we rode was to be put up that night at 
an inn by the way, within about five miles from my house ; and 
as I was willing to prepare my family for my daughter’s recep- 
tion, I determined to leave her that night at the inn, and to re- 
turn for her, accompanied by my daughter Sophia, early the next 
morning. It was night before we reached our appointed stage ; 
however, after seeing her provided with a decent apartment, 
and having ordered the hostess to prepare proper refreshments, 
I kissed her, and proceeded towards home. And now my heart 
caught new sensations of pleasure the nearer I approached that 
peaceful mansion. As a bird that had been frighted from its 
nest, my affections outwent my haste, and hovered round my 
little fireside with all the rapture of expectation. I called up 
the many fond things I had to say, and anticipated the welcome 
I was to receive. I already felt, my wife’s tender embrace, and 
smiled at the joy of my little ones. As I walked but slowly, the 


142 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


night waned apace. The laborers of the day were all retired to 
rest ; the lights were out in every cottage ; no sounds were heard 
but of the shrilling cock, and the deep-mouthed watchdog at 
hollow distance. I approached my little abode of pleasure, and 
before I was within a furlong of the place, our honest mastiff 
came running to welcome me. 

It was now near midnight that I came to knock at my door ; 
all was still and silent ; my heart dilated with unutterable happi- 
ness, when, to my amazement, I saw the house bursting out in a 
blaze of fire, and every aperture red with conflagration ! I gave 
a loud, convulsive outcry, and fell upon the pavement insensible. 
This alarmed my son, who had till this been asleep, and he, per- 
ceiving the flames, instantly waked my wife and daughter; and 
all running out, naked, and wild with apprehension, recalled me 
to life with their anguish. But it was only to see objects of new 
terror; for the flames had by this time caught the roof of our 
dwelling, part after part continuing to fall in, while the family 
stood with silent agony looking on, as if they enjoyed the blaze. 
I gazed upon them and upon it by turns, and then looked round 
me for my two little ones; but they were not to be seen. O 
misery ! “ Where,” cried I, where are my two little ones ? ” 

They are burned to death in the flames,” said my wife, calmly, 
'^and I will die with them.” That moment I heard the cry of 
the babes within, who were just awaked by the fire, and nothing 
could have stopped me. Where, where are my children ? ” 
cried I, rushing through the flames, and bursting the door of the 
chamber in which they were confine.d. “ Where are my little 
ones ? ” “ Here, dear papa, here we are,” cried they together, 

while the flames were just catching the bed where they lay. I 
caught them both in my arms, and snatched them through the 
fire as fast as possible, while, just as I was got out, the roof sunk 
in. "^Now,” cried I, holding up my children, “now let the 
flames bum on, and all my possessions perish. Here they are ; 
I have saved my treasures. Here, my dearest, here are our treas- 
ures, and we shall yet be happy.” We kissed our little darlings 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 


143 


a thousand times ; they clasped us round the neck, and seemed to 
share our transports, while the mother laughed and wept by turns. 

I now stood a calm spectator of the flames, and after some 
time began to perceive that my arm to the shoulder was scorched 
in a terrible manner. It was therefore out of my power to give 
my son any assistance, either in attempting to save our goods, or 
preventing the flames spreading to our corn. By this time the 
neighbors were alarmedy and came running to our assistance ; but 
all they could do was to stand like us, spectators of the calamity. 
My goods, among which were the notes I had reserved for my 
daughters’ fortunes/ were entirely consumed, except a box with 
some papers that , stood in the kitchen, and two or three things 
more of little consequence, which my son brought away in the be- 
ginning. The neighbors contributed, however, what they could 
to lighten our distress. They brought us clothes, and furnished 
one of our outhouses with kitchen utensils; so that by daylight 
we had another, though a wretched, dwelling to retire to. My 
honest next neighbor and his children were not the least assidu- 
ous in providing us with everything necessary, and offering what- 
ever consolation untutored benevolence could suggest. 

When the fears of my family had subsided, curiosity to know 
the cause of my long stay began to take place ; having, there- 
fore, informed them of every particular, I proceeded to prepare 
for the reception of our lost one, and though we had nothing but 
wretchedness now to impart, I was willing to procure her a wel- 
come to what we had. This task would have been more difficult 
but for our recent calamity, which had humbled my wife’s pride, 
and blunted it by more poignant afflictions. Being unable to go 
for my poor child myself, as my arm grew very painful, I sent my 
son and daughter, who soon returned, supporting the wretched 
delinquent, who had not the courage to look up at her mother, 
whom no instructions of mine could persuade to a perfect recon- 
ciliation ; for women have a much stronger sense of error than 
men. “ Ah, madam,” cried her mother, “ this is but a poor place 
you are come to after so much finery. My daughter Sophy and 


144 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


I can afford but little entertainment to persons who have kept 
company only with people of distinction. Yes, Miss Livy, your 
poor father and I have suffered very much of late ; but I hope 
Heaven will forgive you.” During this reception the unhappy 
victim stood pale and trembling, unable to weep or to reply ; but 
I could not continue a silent spectator of her distress ; wherefore, 
assuming a degree of severity in my voice and manner, which was 
ever followed with instant submission, I entreat, woman, that 
my words may be now marked once for all ; I have here brought 
you back a poor deluded wanderer ; her return to duty demands 
the revival of our tenderness. The real hardships of life are 
now coming fast upon us ; let us not, therefore, increase them by 
dissension among each other. If we live harmoniously together, 
we may yet be contented, as there are enough of us to shut out 
the censuring world and keep each other in countenance. The 
kindness of Heaven is promised to the penitent, and let ours be 
directed by the example. Heaven, we are assured, is much more 
pleased to view a repentant sinner than ninety-nine persons who 
have supported a course of undeviating rectitude. And this is 
right ; for that single effort by which we stop short in the down- 
hill path to perdition is itself a greater exertion of virtue than a 
hundred acts of justice.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


NONE BUT THE GUILTY CAN BE LONG AND COMPLETELY MISERABLE. 



OME assiduity was now required to make our present abode 


O as convenient as possible, and we were soon again qualified 
to enjoy our former serenity. Being disabled myself from assist- 
ing my son in our usual occupations, I read to my family the few 
books that were saved, and particularly from such as, by amus- 
ing the imagination, contributed to ease the heart. Our good 
neighbors, too, came every day with the kindest condolence, 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


145 


and fixed a time in which they were all to assist at repairing my 
former dwelling. Honest Farmer Williams was not last among 
these visitors, but heartily offered his friendship. He would even 
have renewed his addresses to my daughter, but she rejected him 
in such a manner as totally repressed his future solicitations. 
Her grief seemed formed for continuing, and she was the only 
person of our little society that a week did not restore to cheer- 
fulness. She had now lost that unblushing innocence which 
once taught her to respect herself and to seek pleasure by pleas- 
ing. Anxiety now had taken possession of her mind ; her beauty 
began to be impaired with her constitution, and neglect still more 
contributed to diminish it. Every tender epithet bestowed on 
her sister brought a pang to her heart and a tear to her eye ; and 
as one vice, though cured, ever plants others where it has been, 
so her former guilt, though driven out by repentance, left jeal- 
ousy and envy behind. I strove a thousand ways to lessen her 
care, and even forgot my own pain in a concern for hers, col- 
lecting such amusing passages of history as a strong memory and 
some reading could suggest. “Our happiness, my dear,” I would 
say, “ is in the power of One who can bring it about a thousand 
unforeseen ways that mock our foresight. If example be neces- 
sary to prove this. I’ll give you a story, my child, told us by a 
grave, though sometimes a romancing, historian. 

“ Matilda was married very young to a Neapolitan nobleman 
of the first quality, and found herself a widow and a mother at 
the age of fifteen. As she stood one day caressing her infant son 
in the open window of an apartment which hung over the river 
Volturna, the child, with a sudden spring, leaped from her arms 
into the flood below, and disappeared in a moment. The mother, 
struck with instant surprise, and making an effort to save him, 
plunged in after ; but far from being able to assist the infant, she 
herself with great difficulty escaped to the opposite shore, just 
when some French soldiers were plundering the country on that 
side, who immediately made her their prisoner. 

“As the war was then carried on between the French and 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


140 

Italians with the utmost inhumanity, they were going at once to 
perpetrate the extreme of cruelty. This base resolution, how- 
ever, was opposed by a young officer, who, though their retreat 
required the utmost expedition, placed her behind him, and 
brought her in safety to his native city. Her beauty at first 
caught his eye, her merit soon after his heart. They were mar- 
ried ; he rose to the highest posts ; they lived long together, and 
were happy. But the felicity of a soldier can never be called 
permanent. After an interval of several years, the troops which 
he commanded having met with a repulse, he was obliged to take 
shelter in the city where he had lived with his wife. Here they 
suffered a siege, and the city at length was taken. Few histories 
can produce more various instances of cruelty than those which 
the French and Italians at that time exercised upon each other. 
It was resolved by the victors upon this occasion to put all the 
French prisoners to death; but particularly the husband of the 
unfortunate Matilda, as he was principally instrumental in pro- 
tracting the siege. Their determinations were in general exe- 
cuted almost as soon as resolved upon. The captive soldier was 
led forth, and the executioner with his sword stood ready, while 
the spectators in gloomy silence awaited the fatal blow, which 
was only suspended till the general, who presided as judge, should 
give the signal. It was in this interval of anguish and expecta- 
tion that Matilda came to take her last farewell of her husband 
and deliverer, deploring her wretched situation, and the cruelty 
of fate, that had saved her from perishing by a premature death 
in the river Voltuma, to be the spectator of still greater calamities. 
The general, who was a young man, was struck with surprise at 
her beauty, and pity at her distress ; but with still stronger emo- 
tions when he heard her mention her former dangers. He was 
her son, the infant for whom she had encountered so much dan- 
ger. He acknowledged her at once as his mother, and fell at her 
feet. The rest may be easily supposed ; the captive was set free, 
and all the happiness that love, friendship, and duty could confer 
on each, were united.” 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 


147 


In this manner I would attempt to amuse my daughter; but 
she listened with divided attention, for her own misfortunes en- 
grossed all the pity she once had for those of another, and noth- 
ing gave her ease. In company she dreaded contempt, and in 
solitude she only found anxiety. Such was the color of her 
wretchedness, when we received certain information that Mr. 
Thornhill was going to be married to Miss Wilmot, for whom I 
always suspected he had a real passion, though he took every 
opportunity before me to express his contempt both of her per- 
son and fortune. This news only served to increase poor Olivia’s 
affliction ; such a flagrant breach of fidelity was more than her 
courage could support. I was resolved, however, to get more 
certain information, and to defeat, if possible, the completion of 
his designs, by sending my son to old Mr. Wilmot’s with instruc- 
tions to know the truth of the report, and to deliver Miss Wil- 
mot a letter intimating Mr. Thornhill’s conduct in my family. 
My son went in pursuance of my directions, and in three days 
returned, assuring us of the truth of the account, but that he had 
found it impossible to deliver the letter, which he was therefore 
obliged to leave, as Mr. Thornhill and Miss Wilmot were visit- 
ing round the country. They were to be married, he said, in a 
few days, having appeared together at church the Sunday before 
he was there, in great splendor, the bride attended by six young 
ladies, and he by as many gentlemen. Their approaching nup- 
tials filled the whole country with rejoicing, and they usually rode 
out together in the grandest equipage that had been seen in the 
country for many years. All the friends of both families, he said, 
were there, particularly the Squire’s uncle. Sir William Thornhill, 
who bore so good a character. He added that nothing but mirth 
and feasting were going forward ; that all the country praised 
the young bride’s beauty and the bridegroom’s fine person, and 
that they were immensely fond of each other; concluding that 
he could not help thinking Mr. Thornhill one of the most happy 
men in the world. 

Why, let him live if he can,” returned I ; but, my son, ob- 


148 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


serve this bed of straw and unsheltering roof ; those moldering 
walls and humid floor ; my wretched body thus disabled by fire, 
and my children weeping round me for bread. You have come 
home, my child, to all this ; yet here, even here, you see a man 
that would not for a thousand worlds exchange situations. O 
my children, if you could but learn to commune with your own 
hearts, and know what noble company you can make them, you 
will little regard the elegance and splendor of the worthless. 
Almost all men have been taught to call life a passage, and 
themselves the travelers. The similitude still may be improved, 
when we observe that the good are joyful and serene, like travel- 
ers that are going towards home ; the wicked, but by intervals 
happy, like travelers that are going into exile.” 

My compassion for my poor daughter, overpowered by this 
new disaster, interrupted what I had further to observe. I bade 
her mother support her, and after a short time she recovered. 
She appeared from that time more calm, and I imagined had 
gained a new degree of resolution ; but appearances deceived me, 
for her tranquillity was the languor of overwrought resentment. 
A supply of provisions, charitably sent us by my kind parish- 
ioners, seemed to diffuse new cheerfulness among the rest of the 
family, nor was I displeased at seeing them once more sprightly 
and at ease. It would have been unjust to damp their satisfac- 
tions, merely to condole with resolute melancholy, or to burden 
them with a sadness they did not feel. Thus once more the tale 
went round and the song was demanded, and cheerfulness con- 
descended to hover round our little habitation. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

FRESH CALAMITIES. 

T he next morning the sun arose with peculiar warmth for 
the season, so that we agreed to breakfast together on the 
honeysuckle bank ; where, while we sat, my youngest daughter, at 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


149 


my request, joined her voice to the concert on the trees about us. 
It was in this place that my poor Olivia first met her betrayer, 
and every object served to recall her sadness. But that melan- 
choly which is excited by objects of pleasure, or inspired by 
sounds of harmony, soothes the heart instead of corroding it. 
Her mother, too, upon this occasion, felt a pleasing distress, 
and wept, and loved her daughter as before. “ Do, my pretty 
Olivia,” cried she, “ let us have that little melancholy air your 
papa was so fond of ; your sister Sophy has already obliged us. 
Do, child; it will please your old father.” She complied in a 
manner so exquisitely pathetic as moved us. 

As she was concluding the last stanza, to which an interrup- 
tion in her voice from sorrow gave peculiar softness, the appear- 
ance of Mr. Thornhill’s equipage at a distance alarmed us all, 
but particularly increased the uneasiness of my eldest daughter, 
who, desirous of shunning her betrayer, returned to the house 
with her sister. In a few minutes he was alighted from his 
chariot, and making up to the place where I was still sitting, in- 
quired after my health with his usual air of familiarity. Sir,” 
replied I, “your present assurance only serves to aggravate the 
baseness of your character ; and there was a time when I would 
have chastised your insolence for presuming thus to appear be- 
fore me. But now you are safe ; for age has cooled my passions, 
and my calling restrains them.” 

“ I vow, my dear sir,” returned he, “I am amazed at all this ; 
nor can I understand what it means ! I hope you don’t think 
your daughter’s late excursion with me had anything criminal in 

it ? ” 

“ Go,” cried I ; “ thou art a wretch, a poor, pitiful wretch, 
and every way a liar ; but your meanness secures you from my 
anger ! Yet, sir, I am descended from a family that would not 
have borne this ! And so, thou vile thing, to gratify a momen- 
vary fancy, thou hast made one poor creature wretched for life, 
and dishonored a family that had nothing but honor for their 
portion ! ” 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


150 

If she or you,” returned he, “ are resolved to be miserable, 
I cannot help it. But you may still be happy; and whatever 
opinion you may have formed of me, you shall ever find me 
ready to contribute to it. We can marry her to another in a 
short time. I protest I shall ever continue to have a true regard 
for her.” 

I found all my passions alarmed at this new degrading pro- 
posal; for though the mind may often be calm under great in- 
juries, little villainy can at any time get within the soul and sting 
it into rage. “ Avoid my sight, thou reptile ! ” cried I, nor 
continue to insult me with thy presence. Were my brave son at 
home he would not suffer this ; but I am old and disabled, and 
every way undone.” 

I find,” cried he, you are bent upon obliging me to talk in 
a harsher manner than I intended. But as I have shown you 
what may be hoped from my friendship, it may not be improper 
to represent what may be the consequences of my resentment. 
My attorney, to whom your late bond has been transferred, 
threatens hard, nor do I know how to prevent the course of jus- 
tice, except by paying the money myself, which, as I have been 
at some expenses lately, previous to my intended marriage, is not 
so easily to be done. And then my steward talks of driving 1 
for the rent ; it is certain he knows his duty, for I never trouble 
myself with affairs of that nature. Yet still I could wish to serve 
you, and even to have you and your daughter present at my 
marriage, which is shortly to be solemnized with Miss Wilmot ; 
it is even the request of my charming Arabella herself, whom I 
hope you will not refuse.” 

Mr. Thornhill,” replied I, “ hear me once for all. As to your 
marriage with any but my daughter, that I never will consent to ; 
and though your friendship could raise me to a throne, or resent- 
ment sink me to the grave, yet would I despise both. Thou hast 
once woefully, irreparably deceived me. I reposed my heart upon 
thine honor, and have found its baseness. Nevermore, there- 
1 That is, driving cattle into a pound as security for rent. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 


fore, expect friendship from me. Go and possess what fortune 
has given thee, — beauty, riches, health, and pleasure. Go, and 
leave me to want, infamy, disease, and sorrow. Yet, humbled as 
I am, shall my heart still vindicate its dignity ; and though thou 
hast my forgiveness, thou shalt ever have my contempt.” 

“If so,” returned he, “depend upon it you shall feel the effects 
of this insolence ; and we shall shortly see which is the fittest 
object of scorn, you or me.” Upon which he departed abruptly. 

My wife and son, who were present at this interview, seemed 
terrified with apprehension. My daughters, also, finding that he 
was gone, came out to be informed of the result of our confer- 
ence, which, when known, alarmed them not less than the rest. 
But as to myself, I disregarded the utmost stretch of his malevo- 
lence ; he had already struck the blow, and now I stood prepared 
to repel every new effort, like one of those instruments used in 
the art of war, which, however thrown, still presents a point to 
receive the enemy. 

We soon, however, found that he had not threatened in vain ; 
for the very next morning his steward came to demand my annual 
rent, which, by the train of accidents already related, I was un- 
able to pay. The consequence of my incapacity was his driving 
my cattle that evening, and their being appraised and sold the 
next day for less than half their value. My wife and children 
now, therefore, entreated me to comply upon any terms, rather 
than incur certain destruction. They even begged of me to 
admit his visits once more, and used all their little eloquence to 
paint the calamities I was going to endure; the terrors of a, 
prison in so rigorous a season as the present, with the danger 
that threatened my health from the late accident that happened 
by the fire. But I continued inflexible. 

“Why, my treasures,” cried I, “why will you thus attempt to 
persuade me to the thing that is not right ? My duty has taught 
me to forgive him ; but my conscience will not permit me to ap- 
prove. Would you have me applaud to the world what my heart 
must internally condemn ? Would you have me tamely sit down 


152 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


and flatter our infamous betrayer ; and, to avoid a prison, continu- 
ally suffer the more galling bonds of mental confinement ? No, 
never. If we are to be taken from this abode, only let us hold 
to the right ; and wherever we are thrown, we can still retire to 
a charming apartment, when we can look round our own hearts 
with intrepidity and with pleasure ! ” 

In this manner we spent that evening. Early the next morn- 
ing, as the snow had fallen in great abundance in the night, my 
son was employed in clearing it away, and opening a passage 
before the door. He had not been thus engaged long when he 
came running in, with looks all pale, to tell us that two strangers, 
whom he knew to be officers of justice, were making towards the 
house. 

Just as he spoke they came in, and approaching the bed where 
I lay, after previously informing me of their employment and busi- 
ness, made me their prisoner, bidding me prepare to go with them 
to the county jail, which was eleven miles off. 

“ My friends,” said I, “ this is severe weather in which you 
have come to take me to a prison ; and it is particularly unfor- 
tunate at this time, as one of my arms has lately been burned in 
a terrible manner, and it has thrown me into a slight fever, and 
I want clothes to cover me ; and I am now too weak and old to 
walk far in such deep snow ; but if it must be so ” — 

I then turned to my wife and children, and directed them to 
get together what few things were left us, and to prepare immedi- 
ately for leaving this place. I entreated them to be expeditious, 
and desired my son to assist his eldest sister, who, from a con- 
sciousness that she was the cause of all our calamities, was fallen, 
and had lost anguish in insensibility. I encouraged my wife, 
who, pale and trembling, clasped our affrighted little ones in her 
arms, that clung to her bosom in silence, dreading to look round 
at the strangers. In the mean time my youngest daughter pre- 
pared for our departure, and as she received several hints to use 
dispatch, in about an hour we were ready to depart. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


153 


CHAPTER XXV. 


NO SITUATION, HOWEVER WRETCHED IT SEEMS, BUT HAS SOME SORT OF 
COMFORT ATTENDING IT. 



E set forward from this peaceful neighborhood, and walked 


V V on slowly. My eldest daughter being enfeebled by a slow 
fever, which had begun for some days to undermine her consti- 
tution, one of the officers, who had a horse, kindly took her be- 
hind him ; for even these men cannot entirely divest themselves 
of humanity. My son led one of the little ones by the hand, and 
my wife the other, while I leaned upon my youngest girl, whose 
tears fell, not for her own, but my distresses. 

We were now got from my late dwelling about two miles, 
when we saw a crowd running and shouting behind us, consisting 
of about fifty of my poorest parishioners. These, with dreadful 
imprecations, soon seized upon the two officers of justice, and 
swearing they would never see their minister go to jail while they 
had a drop of blood to shed in his defense, were going to use 
them with the greatest severity. The consequence might have 
been fatal had I not immediately interposed, and with some diffi- 
culty rescued the officers from the hands of the enraged multi- 
tude. My children, who looked upon my delivery now as certain, 
appeared transported with joy, and were incapable of containing 
their raptures. But they were soon undeceived upon hearing me 
address the poor deluded people, who came, as they imagined, 
to do me service. 

“ What ! my friends,” cried I, “ and is this the way you love 
me ? Is this the manner you obey the instructions I have given 
you from the pulpit, thus to fly in the face of justice, and bring 
down ruin on yourselves and me ? Which is your ringleader ? 
Show me the man that has thus seduced you. As sure as he 
lives he shall feel my resentment. Alas ! my dear deluded flock, 
return back to the duty you owe to God, to your country, and 


154 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


to me. I shall yet, perhaps, one day see you in greater felicity 
here, and contribute to make* your lives more happy. But let it 
at least be my comfort when I pen my fold for immortality,^ that 
not one here shall be wanting.” 

They now seemed all repentance, and melting into tears, came 
one after the other to bid me farewell. I shook each tenderly by 
the hand, and leaving them my blessing, proceeded forward with- 
out meeting any further interruption. Some hours before night 
we reached the town, or rather village, for it consisted but of a 
few mean houses, having lost all its former opulence, and retain- 
ing no marks of its ancient superiority but the jail. 

Upon entering we put up at the inn, where we had such re- 
freshments as could most readily be procured, and I supped with 
my family with my usual cheerfulness. After seeing them prop- 
erly accommodated for that night, I next attended the sheriff’s 
officers to the prison, which had formerly been built for the 
purposes of war, and consisted of one large apartment, strongly 
grated and paved with stone, common to both felons and debt- 
ors at certain hours in the four and twenty. Besides this, every 
prisoner had a separate cell, where he was locked in for the night. 

I expected upon my entrance to find nothing but lamentations 
and various sounds of misery ; but it was very different. The 
prisoners seemed all employed in one common design, that of 
forgetting thought in merriment or clamor. I was apprised of 
the usual perquisite 2 required upon these occasions, and immedi- 
ately complied with the demand, though the little money I had 
was very near being all exhausted. This was immediately sent 
away for liquor, and the whole prison soon was filled with riot, 
laughter, and profaneness. 

“How!” cried I to myself, “shall men so very wicked be 
cheerful, and shall I be melancholy? I feel only the same con- 

1 “ When I pen my fold for immortality.” This beautiful phrase means, 
when I gather my flock into everlasting life. 

2 Payment or fee from a newcomer, which it was the custom for those 
in the prison to demand. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 155 

finement with them, and I think I have more reason to be 
happy.” 

With such reflections I labored to become cheerful; but cheer- 
fulness was never yet produced by effort, which is itself painful. 
As I was sitting, therefore, in a corner of the jail, in a pensive 
posture, one of my fellow-prisoners came up, and sitting by me, 
entered into conversation. It was my constant rule in life never 
to avoid the conversation of any man who seemed to desire it ; 
for if good, I might profit by his instruction ; if bad, he might be 
assisted by mine. I found this to be a knowing man, of strong, 
unlettered sense, but a thorough knowledge of the world, as it 
was called, or, more properly speaking, of human nature on the 
wrong side. He asked me if I had taken care to provide myself 
with a bed, which was a circumstance I had never once attended 
to. 

“That’s unfortunate,” cried he, “as you are allowed here noth- 
ing but straw, and your apartment is very large and cold. How- 
ever, you seem to be something of a gentleman, and as I have 
been one myself in my time, part of my bedclothes are heartily 
at your service.” 

I thanked him, professing my surprise at finding such human- 
ity, in a jail, in misfortunes ; adding, to let him see that I was a 
scholar, that the sage ancient seemed to understand the value 
of company in affliction when he said, “ Ton kosmon aire, ei dos 
ton etairon; ” ^ “ and in fact,” continued I, “ what is the world if it 
affords only solitude ? ” 

“You talk of the world, sir,” returned my fellow-prisoner: 
“ the world is in its dotage ; and yet the cosmogony or creation 
of the world has puzzled the philosophers of every age. What 
a medley of opinions have they not broached upon the creation 
of the world ! Sanchoniathon, Manetho, Berosus, and Ocellus 
Lucanus have all attempted it in vain. The latter has these 
words: ^Anarchon ara kai atelutaion to pan^ which implies” — 
“ I ask pardon, sir,” cried I, “ for interrupting so much learning ; 

1 You may take the world if you leave me my friend. 


156 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 

but I think I have heard all this before. Have I not had the 
pleasure of once seeing you at Wellbridge fair, and is not your 
name Ephraim Jenkinson ? ” At this demand he only sighed. 
“ I suppose you must recollect,” resumed I, “ one Dr. Primrose, 
from whom you bought a horse ? ” 

He now at once recollected me; for the gloominess of the 
place and the approaching night had prevented his distinguish- 
ing my features before. Yes, sir,” returned Mr. Jenkinson, “ I 
remember you perfectly well ; I bought a horse, but forgot to pay 
for him. Your neighbor Flamborough is the only prosecutor I 
am anyway afraid of at the next assizes for he intends to swear 
positively against me as a coiner.2 I am heartily sorry, sir, I ever 
deceived you, or indeed any man ; for you see,” continued he, 
showing his shackles, “ what my tricks have brought me to.” 

“Well, sir,” replied I, “your kindness in offering me assist 
ance when you could expect no return shall be repaid with my 
endeavors to soften or totally suppress Mr. Flamborough’s evi- 
dence, and I will send my son to him for that purpose the first 
opportunity ; nor do I in the least doubt but he will comply with 
my request ; and as to my own evidence, you need be under no 
uneasiness about that.” 

“ Well, sir,” cried he, “ all the return I can make shall be yours. 
You shall have more than half my bedclothes to-night, and I’ll 
take care to stand your friend in the prison, where I think I have 
some influence.” 

I thanked him, and could not avoid being surprised at the 
present youthful change in his aspect ; for at the time I had seen 
him before, he appeared at least sixty. “ Sir,” answered he, “ you 
are little acquainted with the world ; I had at that time false hair, 
and have learned the art of counterfeiting every age from seven- 
teen to seventy. Ah, sir, had I but bestowed half the pains in 
learning a trade that I have in learning to be a scoundrel, I might 

1 Session of a court of iustice. 

* Counterfeiter. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


157 


have been a rich man at this day. But rogue as I am, still I 
may be your friend, and that perhaps when you least expect it.” 

We were now prevented from further conversation by the ar- 
rival of the jailer’s servants, who came to call over the prisoners’ 
names, and lock up for the night. A fellow, also, with a bundle 
of straw for my bed attended, who led me along a dark, narrow 
passage into a room paved like the common prison, and in one 
corner of this I spread my bed, and the clothes given me by my 
fellow-prisoner ; which done, my conductor, who was civil enough, 
bade me a good night. After my usual meditations, and having 
praised my Heavenly Corrector, I laid myself down, and slept with 
the utmost tranquillity till morning. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


A REFORMATION IN THE JAIL. TO MAKE LAWS COMPLETE, THEY 


SHOULD REWARD AS WELL AS PUNISH. 



HE next morning early I was awakened by my family. 


X whom I found in tears at my bedside. The gloomy 
strength of everything about us, it seems, had daunted them. I 
gently rebuked their sorrow, assuring them I had never slept with 
greater tranquillity, and next inquired after my eldest daughter, 
who was not among them. They informed me that yesterday’s 
uneasiness and fatigue had increased her fever, and it was judged 
proper to leave her behind. My next care was to send my son 
to procure a room or two to lodge the family in, as near the 
prison as conveniently could be found. He obeyed, but could 
only find one apartment, which was hired at a small expense for 
his mother and sisters, the jailer with humanity consenting to let 
him and his two brothers lie in the prison with me. A bed was 
therefore prepared for them in a corner of the room, which I 
thought answered very conveniently. I was willing, however, 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


158 

previously to know whether my little children chose to lie in a 
place which seemed to fright them upon entrance. 

“ Well,” cried I, “ my good boys, how do you like your bed ? 
I hope you are not afraid to lie in this room, dark as it appears ? ” 

“No, papa,” says Dick, “I am not afraid to lie anywhere 
where you are.” 

“And I,” says Bill, who was yet but foiu* years old, “love 
every place best that my papa is in.” 

After this I allotted to each of the family what they were to 
do. My daughter was particularly directed to watch her declin- 
ing sister’s health ; my wife was to attend to me ; my little boys 
were 'to read to me. “ And as for you, my son,” continued I, “ it 
is by the labor of your hands we must all hope to be supported. 
Your wages as a day laborer will be fully sufficient, with proper 
frugality, to maintain us all, and comfortably too. Thou art 
now sixteen years old, and hast strength ; and it was given thee, 
my son, for very useful purposes ; for it must save from famine 
your helpless parents and family. Prepare, then, this evening 
to look out for work against to-morrow, and bring home every 
night what money you earn for our support.” 

Having thus instructed him and settled the rest, I walked 
down to the common prison, where I could enjoy more air and 
room. But I was not long there when the execrations, lewdness, 
and brutality that invaded me on every side drove me back to 
my apartment again. Here I sat for some time pondering upon 
the strange infatuation of wretches who, finding all mankind in 
open arms against them, were laboring to make themselves a 
future and tremendous enemy. 

Their insensibility excited my highest compassion, and blotted 
my own uneasiness from my mind. It even appeared a duty in- 
cumbent upon me to attempt to reclaim them. I resolved, there- 
fore, once more to return, and, in spite of their contempt, to give 
them my advice, and conquer them by perseverance. Going, 
therefore, among them again, I informed Mr. Jenkinson of my 
design, at which he laughed, but communicated it to the rest. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


159 


The proposal was received with the greatest good humor, as it 
promised to afford a new fund of entertainment to persons who 
had now no other resource for mirth but what could be derived 
from ridicule or evil deeds. 

I therefore read them a portion of the service^ with a loud, 
unaffected voice, and found my audience perfectly merry upon 
the occasion. Lewd whispers, groans of contrition burlesqued, 
winking and coughing, alternately excited laughter. However, 
I continued with my natural solemnity to read on, sensible that 
what I did might mend some, but could itself receive no con- 
tamination from any. 

After reading I entered upon my exhortation, which was 
rather calculated at first to amuse than to reprove. I previously 
observed that no other motive but their welfare could induce me 
to this ; that I was their fellow-prisoner, and now got nothing by 
preaching. I was sorry, I said, to hear them so very profane, 
because they got nothing by it, but might lose a great deal ; “for 
be assimed, my friends,” cried I, — “for you are my friends, how- 
ever the world may disclaim your friendship, — though you swore 
a thousand oaths in a day, it would not put one penny in your 
purse. Then what signifies calling every moment upon the devil, 
and courting his friendship, since you find how scurvily ^ he uses 
you ? He has given you nothing here, you find, but a mouth- 
ful of oaths and an empty stomach ; and by the best accounts I 
have of him, he will give you nothing that’s good hereafter. 

“ If used ill in our dealings with one man, we naturally go 
elsewhere. Were it not worth your while, then, just to try how 
you may like the usage of another Master, who gives you fair 
promises at least to come to him ? Surely, my friends, of all 
stupidity in the world, his must be the greatest who, after rob- 
bing a house, runs to the thief takers for protection. And yet 
how are you more wise ? You are all seeking comfort from 

1 The form prescribed for public service by the Church of England. 

2 Meanly; shabbily. 


i6o OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 

one that has already betrayed you, applying to a more malicious 
being than any thief taker of them all ; for they only decoy, and 
then hang you ; but he decoys and hangs, and, what is worst of 
all, will not let you loose after the hangman is done.” 

When I had concluded, I received the compliments of my 
audience, some of whom came and shook me by the hand, 
swearing that I was a very honest fellow, and that they desired 
my further acquaintance. I therefore promised to repeat my 
lecture next day, and actually conceived some hopes of making 
a reformation here; for it had ever been my opinion that no 
man was past the hour of amendment, every heart lying open to 
the shafts of reproof, if the archer could but take a proper aim. 
When I had thus satisfied my mind, I went back to my apart- 
ment, where my wife prepared a frugal meal, while Mr. Jenkin- 
son begged leave to add his dinner to ours, and partake of the 
pleasure, as he was kind enough to express it, of my conversa- 
tion. He had not yet .seen my family; for as they came to my 
apartment by a door in the narrow passage already described, 
by this means they avoided the common prison. Jenkinson, at 
the first interview, therefore, seemed not a little struck with the 
beauty of my youngest daughter, which her pensive air contrib- 
uted to heighten ; and my little ones did not pass unnoticed. 

“Alas! doctor,” cried he, “these children are too handsome 
and too good for such a place as this 1 ” 

“Why, Mr. Jenkinson,” replied I, “thank Heaven, my chil- 
dren are pretty tolerable in morals ; and if they be good, it mat- 
ters little for the rest.” 

“I fancy, sir,” returned my fellow-prisoner, “that it must give 
you great comfort to have all this little family about you.” 

“A comfort, Mr. Jenkinson I” replied I ; “yes, it is indeed a 
comfort, and I would not be without them for all the world ; for 
they can make a dungeon seem a palace. There is but one way 
in this life of wounding my happiness, and that is by injuring 
them.” 

“ I am afraid, then, sir,” cried he, “ that I am in some measure 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


i6i 


culpable ; for I think I see here [looking at my son Moses] oiie 
that I have injured, and by whom I wish to be forgiven.” 

My son immediately recollected his voice and features, though 
he had before seen him in disguise ; and taking him by the hand, 
with a smile forgave him. ‘'Yet,” continued he, “I can’t help 
wondering at what you could see in my face, to think me a 
proper mark for deception.” 

“ My dear sir,” returned the other, “ it was not your face, but 
your white stockings, and the black ribbon in your hair, that 
allured me. But no disparagement to your parts I have de- 
ceived wiser men than you in my time; and yet, with all my 
tricks, the blockheads have been too many for me at last.” 

“ I suppose,” cried my son, “ that the narrative of such a life 
as yours must be extremely instructive and amusing.” 

“Not much of either,” returned Mr. Jenkinson. “Those re- 
lations which describe the tricks and vices only of mankind, by 
increasing our suspicion in life, retard our success. The traveler 
that distrusts every person he meets, and turns back upon the 
appearance of every man that looks like a robber, seldom arrives 
in time at his journey’s end. 

“ Indeed I think, from my own experience, that the knowing 
one is the silliest fellow under the sun. I was thought cunnir\g 
from my very childhood. When but seven years old, the ladies 
would say that I was a perfect little man ; at fourteen, I knew the 
world, cocked my hat, and loved the ladies; at twenty, though 
I was perfectly honest, yet every one thought me so cunning 
that not one would trust me. Thus at last I was obliged to turn 
sharper in my own defense, and have lived ever since, my head 
throbbing with schemes to deceive, and my heart palpitating 
with fears of detection. I used often to laugh at your honest, 
simple neighbor Flamborough, and one way or another generally 
cheated him once a year. Yet still the honest man went forward 


1 “ No disparagement to your parts,” i.e., no undervaluing of your abili- 


i 62 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


without suspicion, and grew rich, while I still continued tricksy 
and cunning, and was poor without the consolation of being 
honest. However,” continued he, “let me know your case, and 
what has brought you here ; perhaps, though I have not skill to 
avoid a jail myself, I may extricate my friends.” 

In compliance with his curiosity, I informed him of the whole 
train of accidents and follies that had plunged me into my pres- 
ent troubles, and my utter inability to get free. 

After hearing my story, and pausing some minutes, he slapped 
his forehead, as if he had hit upon something material, and took 
his leave, saying he would try what could be done. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED. 



HE next morning I communicated to my wife and children 


JL the scheme I had planned of reforming the prisoners, which 
they received with universal disapprobation, alleging the impossi- 
bility and impropriety of it ; adding that my endeavors would no 
way contribute to their amendment, but might probably disgrace 
my calling. 

“ Excuse me,” returned I ; “ these people, however fallen, are 
still men ; and that is a very good title to my affections. Good 
counsel rejected returns to enrich the giver’s bosom ; and though 
the instruction I communicate may not mend them, yet it will 
assuredly mend myself. It these wretches, my children, were 
princes, there would be thousands ready to offer their ministry ; 
but, in my opinion, the heart that is buried in a dungeon is as 
precious as that seated upon the throne. Yes, my treasures, if 
I can mend them, I will; perhaps they will not all despise me. 
Perhaps I may catch up even one from the gulf, and that will 
be great gain ; for is there upon earth a gem so precious as the 
human soul ? ” 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


163 

Thus saying, I left them, and descended to the common prison, 
where I found the prisoners very merry expecting my arrival, 
and each prepared with some jail trick to play upon the doctor. 
Thus, as I was going to begin, one turned my wig awry, as if by 
accident, and then asked my pardon. A second, who stood at 
some distance, had a knack of spitting through his teeth, which 
fell in showers upon my book. A third would cry ^'Amen ” with 
such an affected tone as gave the rest great delight. A fourth 
had slyly picked my pocket of my spectacles. But there was 
one whose trick gave more universal pleasure than all the rest ; 
for observing the manner in which I had disposed my books on 
the table before me, he very dexterously displaced one of them, 
and put an obscene jest book of his own in the place. How- 
ever, I took no notice of all that this mischievous group of little 
beings could do, but went on, perfectly sensible that what was 
ridiculous in my attempt would excite mirth only the first or 
second time, while what was serious would be permanent. My 
design succeeded, and in less than six days some were penitent, 
and all attentive. 

It was now that I applauded my perseverance and address at 
thus giving sensibility to wretches divested of every moral feeling ; 
and now began to think of doing them temporal services also, by 
rendering their situation somewhat more comfortable. Their time 
had hitherto been divided between famine and excess, tumultuous 
riot and bitter repining. Their only employment was quarreling 
among each other, playing at cribbage, and cutting tobacco stop- 
pers.i From this last mode of idle industry I took the hint of 
setting such as chose to work at cutting pegs for tobacconists and 
shoemakers, the proper wood being bought by a general subscrip- 
tion, and when manufactured, sold by my appointment ; so that 
each earned something every day, — a trifle, indeed, but sufficient 
to maintain him. 

I did not stop here, but instituted fines for the punishm^t of 
immorality, and rewards for peculiar industry. Thus in less than 

1 A device for pressing down half-burnt tobacco in the bowl of a pipe. 


164 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


a fortnight I had formed them into something social and humane, 
and had the pleasure of regarding myself as a legislator who 
had brought men from their native ferocity into friendship and 
obedience. 

And it were highly to be wished that legislative power would 
thus direct the law rather to reformation than severity; that it 
would seem convinced that the work of eradicating crimes is not 
by making punishments familiar, but formidable. Then, instead 
of our present prisons, which find or make men guilty, which in- 
close wretches for the commission of one crime, and return them, 
if returned alive, fitted for the perpetration of thousands, — we 
should see, as in other parts of Europe, places of penitence and 
solitude, where the accused might be attended by such as could 
give them repentance, if guilty, or new motives to virtue, if inno- 
cent. And this, but not the increasing punishment, is the way 
to mend a state. Nor can I avoid even questioning the validity 
of that right which social combinations have assumed, of capitally 
punishing offenses of a slight nature. In cases of murder their 
right is obvious, as it is the duty of us all, from the law of self- 
defense, to cut off that man who has shown a disregard for the 
life of another. Against such all nature rises in arms ; but it is 
not so against him who steals my property. Natural law gives 
nie no right to take away his life, as, by that, the horse he steals 
is as much his property as mine. If, then, I have any right, it 
must be from a compact made between us that he who deprives 
the other of his horse shall die. But this is a false compact, be- 
cause no man has a right to barter his life any more than to take 
it away, as it is not his own. And besides, the compact is inade- 
quate, and would be set aside even in a court of modern equity, 
as there is a great penalty for a very trifling convenience, since it 
is far better that two men should live than that one man should 
ride. But a compact that is false between two men is equally so 
between a hundred, or a hundred thousand ; for as ten millions 
of circles can never make a square, so the united voice of myriads 
cannot lend the smallest foundation to falsehood. It is thus 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


165 

that reason speaks, and untutored nature says the same thing. 
Savages that are directed by natural law alone are very tender of 
the lives of each other ; they seldom shed blood but to retaliate 
former cruelty. 

Our Saxon ancestors, fierce as they were in war, had but few 
executions in times of peace ; and in all commencing governments 
that have the print of nature still strong upon them, scarcely any 
crime is held capital. 

It is among the citizens of a refined community that penal 
laws, which are in the hands of the rich, are laid upon the poor. 
Government, while it grows older, seems to acquire the morose- 
ness of age ; and as if our property were become, dearer in pro- 
portion as it increased, as if the more enormous our wealth the 
more extensive our fears, all our possessions are paled up with 
new edicts every day, and hung round with gibbets to scare 
every invader.^ 

I cannot tell whether it is from the number of our penal laws 
or the licentiousness of our people that this country should show 
more convicts in a year than half the dominions of Europe united. 
Perhaps it is owing to both ; for they mutually produce each 
other. When, by indiscriminate penal laws, a nation beholds the 
same punishment affixed to dissimilar degrees of guilt, from per- 
ceiving no distinction in the penalty, the people are led to lose 
all sense of distinction in the crime, and this distinction is the 
bulwark of all morality. Thus the multitude of the laws produce 
new vices, and new vices call for fresh restraints. 

It were to be wished, then, that power, instead of contriving 
new laws to punish vice, instead of drawing hard the cords of 
society till a convulsion come to burst them, instead of cutting 
away wretches as useless before we have tried their utility, in- 

1 Goldsmith means to say here that our possessions are protected by ever- 
increasing laws and order, and by the threat of the gallows for him who en- 
deavors to get a share. Gallows were so common a feature in the English 
landscape of the last century that Bewick, a famous wood engraver, not in- 
frequently put them in the cuts .which he made for books. 


i66 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


Stead of converting correction into vengeance, — it were to be 
wished that we tried the restrictive arts of government, and 
made law the protector, but not the tyrant, of the people. We 
should then find that creatures whose souls are held as dross 
only wanted the hand of a refiner. We should then find that 
creatures now stuck up for long tortures,^ lest luxury should feel 
a momentary pang, might, if properly treated, serve to sinew the 
state 2 in times of danger ; that as their faces are like ours, their 
hearts are so too ; that few minds are so base that perseverance 
cannot amend them ; that a man may see his last crime without 
dying for it ; and that very little blood will serve to cement our 
security.3 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

HAPPINESS AND MISERY RATHER THE RESULT OF PRUDENCE THAN OF 
VIRTUE, IN THIS LIFE; TEMPORAL EVILS OR FELICITIES BEING RE- 
GARDED BY HEAVEN AS THINGS MERELY IN THEMSELVES TRIFLING, 
AND UNWORTHY ITS CARE AND DISTRIBUTION. 

I HAD now been confined more than a fortnight, but had 
not since my arrival been visited by my dear Olivia, and I 
greatly longed to see her. Having communicated my wishes to 
my wife, the next morning the poor girl entered my apartment, 
leaning on her sister’s arm. The change which I saw on her 
countenance struck me. The numberless graces that once re- 
sided there were now fled, and the hand of death seemed to have 
molded every feature to alarm me. Her temples were sunk, her 
forehead was tense, and a fatal paleness sat upon her cheek. 

1 “ Stuck up for long tortures,” i.e., thrust in prison to lie under long 
sentence.. 

2 “ To sinew the state,” i.e., to be the support and mainstay of the state. 
2 A better penal code prevails in our own than in Goldsmith’s day; but 
we still lack the conviction “ that as their faces are like ours, their hearts are 
so too; that few minds are so base that perseverance cannot amend them.” 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 


167 

I am glad to see thee, my dear,” cried I ; “ but why this de- 
jection, Livy ? I hope, my love, you have too great a regard 
for me to permit disappointment thus to undermine a life which- 
I prize as my own. Be cheerful, child, and we may yet see 
happier days.” 

“You have ever, sir,” replied she, “been kind to me, and it 
adds to my pain that I shall never have an opportunity of shar- 
ing that happiness you promise. Happiness, I fear, is no longer 
reserved for me here ; and I long to be rid of a place where I 
have only found distress. Indeed, sir, I wish you would make 
a proper submission to Mr. Thornhill; it may in some measure 
induce him to pity you, and it will give me relief in dying.” 

“Never, child,” replied I ; “never will I be brought to acknowl- 
edge my daughter in the wrong ; for though the world may look 
upon your offense with scorn, let it be mine to regard it as a 
mark of credulity, not of guilt. My dear, I am no way miserable 
in this place, however dismal it may seem ; and be assured that 
while you continue to bless me by living, he shall never have my 
consent to make you more wretched by marrying another.” 

After the departure of my daughter, my fellow-prisoner, who 
was by at this interview, sensibly enough expostulated on my 
obstinacy in refusing a submission which promised to give me 
freedom. He observed that the rest of my family was not to be 
sacrificed to the peace of one child alone, and she the only one 
who had offended me. “ Besides,” added he, “ I don’t know if 
it be just thus to obstruct the union of man and wife, which you 
do at present, by refusing to consent to a match you cannot hin- 
der, but may render unhappy.” 

“ Sir,” replied I, “ you are unacquainted with the man that 
oppresses us. I am very sensible that no submission I can make 
could procure me liberty even for an hour. I am told that even 
in this very room a debtor of his, no later than last year, died 
for want. But though my submission and approbation could 
transfer me from hence to the most beautiful apartment he is 
possessed of, yet I would grant neither, as something whispers 


i68 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


me that it would be giving a sanction to a base crime. While 
my daughter lives, no other marriage of his shall ever be legal in 
my eye. Were she removed, indeed, I should be the basest of 
men, from' any resentment of my own, to attempt putting asunder 
those who wish for a union. No ; villain as he is, I should then 
wish him married, to prevent the consequences of his future evil 
deeds. But now, should I not be the most cruel of all fathers 
to sign an instrument which must send my child to the grave, 
merely to avoid a prison myself ; and thus, to escape one pang, 
break my child’s heart with a thousand? ” 

He acquiesced in the justice of this answer, but could not 
avoid observing that he feared my daughter’s life was already 
too much wasted to keep me long a prisoner. However,” con- 
tinued he, though you refuse to submit to the nephew, I hope 
you have no objection to laying your case before the uncle, who 
has the first character in the kingdom for everything that is just 
and good. I would advise you to send him a letter by the post, 
intimating all his nephew’s ill usage, and my life for it that in 
three days you shall have an answer.” I thanked him for the 
hint, and instantly set about complying ; but I wanted paper, 
and unluckily all our money had been laid out that morning in 
provisions ; however, he supplied me. 

For the three ensuing days I was in a state of anxiety to know 
what reception my letter might meet with ; but in the mean time 
was frequently solicited by my wife to submit to any conditions 
rather than remain here, and every hour received repeated ac- 
counts of the decline of my daughter’s health. The third day 
and the fourth arrived, but I received no answer to my letter; 
the complaints of a stranger against a favorite nephew were no 
way likely to succeed ; so that these hopes soon vanished like 
all my former. My mind, however, still supported itself, though 
confinement and bad air began to make a visible alteration in 
my health, and my arm that had suffered in the fire grew worse. 
My children, however, sat by me, and, while I was stretched on 
my straw, read to me by turns, or listened and wept at my in- 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 169 

stnictions. But my daughter’s health declined faster than mine ; 
every message from her contributed to increase my apprehen- 
sion and pain. The fifth morning after I had written the letter 
which was sent to Sir William Thornhill, I was alarmed with an 
account that she was speechless. Now it was that confinement 
was truly painful to me. My soul was bursting from its prison to 
be near the pillow of my child, to comfort, to strengthen her, to 
receive her last wishes, and teach her soul the way to heaven! 
Another account came ; she was expiring ; and yet I was debarred 
the small comfort of weeping by her. My fellow-prisoner, some 
time after, came with the last account. He bade me be patient ; 
she was dead ! The next morning he returned, and found me 
with my two little ones, now my only companions, who were 
using all their innocent efforts to comfort me. They entreated 
to read to me, and bade me not cry, for 1 was now too old to 
weep. “ And is not my sister an angel now, papa ? ” cried the 
eldest ; “ and why, then, are you sorry for her ? I wish I were 
an angel out of this frightful place, if my papa were with me.” 
“Yes,” added my youngest darling, “heaven, where my sister is, 
is a finer place than this, and there is none but good people there, 
and the people here are very bad.” 

Mr. Jenkinson interrupted their harmless prattle by observing 
that, now my daughter was no more, I should seriously think of 
the rest of my family, and attempt to save my own life, which 
was every day declining for want of necessaries and wholesome 
air. He added that it was now incumbent on me to sacrifice 
any pride or resentment of my own to the welfare of those who 
depended on me for support ; and that I was now, both by rea- 
son and justice, obliged to try to reconcile my landlord. 

“ Heaven be praised,” replied I, “ there is no pride left me 
now ; I should detest my own heart if I saw either pride or re- 
sentment lurking there. On the contrary, as my oppressor has 
been once my parishioner, I hope one day to present him up an 
unpolluted soul at the eternal tribunal. No, sir, I have no resent- 
ment now ; and though he has taken from me what I held dearer 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


170 

than all his treasures, though he has wrung my heart, — for I am 
sick almost to fainting; very sick, my fellow-prisoner, — yet that 
shall never inspire me with vengeance. I am now willing to ap- 
prove his marriage ; and if this submission can do him any pleas- 
ure, let him know that if I have done him any injury I am sorry 
for it.” 

Mr. Jenkinson took pen and ink, and wrote down my submis- 
sion nearly as I had expressed it, to which I signed my name. 
My son was employed to carry the letter to Mr. Thornhill, who 
was then at his seat in the country. He went, and in about six 
hours returned with a verbal answer. He had some difficulty, 
he said, to get a sight of his landlord, as the servants were inso- 
lent and suspicious ; but he accidentally saw him as he was going 
out upon business, preparing for his marriage, which was to be 
in three days. He continued to inform us that he stepped up 
in the humblest manner, and delivered the letter, which when 
Mr. Thornhill had read, he said that all submission was now too 
late and unnecessary ; that he had heard of our application to his 
uncle, which met with the contempt it deserved ; and as for the 
rest, that all future application should be directed to his attorney, 
not to him. He observed, however, that as he had a very good 
opinion of the discretion of the two 3^oung ladies, they might 
have been the most agreeable intercessors. 

“Well, sir,” said I to my fellow -prisoner, “you now discover 
the temper of the man that oppresses me. He can at once be 
facetious and cruel ; but let him use me as he will ; I shall soon 
be free, in spite of all his bolts to restrain me. I am now draw- 
ing towards an abode that looks brighter as I approach it. This 
expectation cheers my afflictions, and though I leave a helpless 
family of orphans behind me, yet they will not be utterly for- 
saken ; some friend will be found to assist them for the sake of 
their poor father, and some may charitably relieve them for the 
sake of their Heavenly Father.” 

Just as I had spoken, my wife, whom I had not seen that day 
before, appeared with looks of terror, and making efforts, but un- 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


171 

able to speak. "Why, my love,” cried I, ‘Vhy will you increase 
my afflictions by your own ? What though no submissions can 
turn our severe master, though he has doomed me to die in this 
place of wretchedness, and though we have lost a darling child, 
yet still you will find comfort in your other children when I shall 
be no more.” “We have indeed lost,” returned she, “a darling 
child. My Sophia, my dearest, is gone ! snatched from us — car- 
ried off by ruffians ! ” “ How, madam,” cried my fellow-prisoner, 
“ Miss Sophia carried off by villains ? sure it cannot be ! ” 

She could only answer with a fixed look and a flood of tears ; 
but one of the prisoner’s wives who was present, and came in 
with her, gave us a more distinct account. She informed us that 
as my wife, my daughter, and herself were taking a walk together 
on the great road, a little way out of the village, a post chaise 
and pair drove up to them, and instantly stopped. Upon which 
a well-dressed man, but not Mr. Thornhill, stepping out, clasped 
my daughter round the waist, and forcing her in, bid the pos- 
tilion ^ drive on, so that they were out of sight in a moment. 

“ Now,” cried I, “the sum of my miseries is made up, nor is 
it in the power of anything on earth to give me another pang. 
What ! not one left ! not to leave me one ! — The monster ! — 
The child that was next to my heart ! she has the beauty of an 
angel, and almost the wisdom of an angel. — But support that 
woman, nor let her fall. — Not to leave me one !” 

“ Alas ! my husband,” said my wife, “ you seem to want com- 
fort even more than I. Our distresses are great; but I could 
bear this and more, if I saw you but easy. They may take away 
my children, and all the world, if they leave me but you.” 

My son, who was present, endeavored to moderate her grief ; 
he bade us take comfort, for he hoped that we might still have 
reason to be thankful. “ My child,” cried I, “ look round the 
world, and see if there be any happiness left me now. Is not 
every ray of comfort shut out? while all our bright prospects only 

1 The rider of the near horse of the pair. With but two horses there 
•would be no driver on the box. 


172 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


lie beyond the grave ! ” My dear father,” returned he , '' I hope 
there is still something that will give you an interval of satisfac- 
tion ; for I have a letter from my brother George.” What of 
him, child ? ” interrupted I ; “ does he know our misery ? I 
hope my boy is exempt from any part of what his wretched 
family suffers.” “Yes, sir,” returned he, “he is perfectly gay, 
cheerful, and happy. His letter brings nothing but good news. 
He is the favorite of his colonel, who promises to procure him the 
very next lieutenancy that becomes vacant.” 

“ And are you sure of all this ? ” cried my wife. “ Are you 
sure that nothing ill has befallen my boy ? ” “ Nothing, indeed, 

madam,” returned my son ; “ you shall see the letter, which will 
give you the highest pleasure ; and if anything can procme you 
comfort, I am sure that will.” “ But are you sure,” still re- 
peated she, “ that the letter is from himself, and that he is really 
so happy ? ” “Yes, madam,” replied he, “ it is certainly his, and 
he will one day be the credit and support of our family.” “ Then 
I thank Providence,” cried she, “ that my last letter to him has 
miscarried. — Yes, my dear,” continued she, turning to me, “I 
will now confess that though the hand of Heaven is sore upon us 
in other instances, it has been favorable here. By the last letter 
I wrote my son, which was in the bitterness of anger, I desired 
him upon his mother’s blessing, and if he had the heart of a man, 
to see justice done his father and sister, and avenge our cause. 
But thanks be to Him that directs all things, it has miscarried, 
and I am at rest.” “ Woman,” cried I, “ thou hast done very ill, 
and at another time my reproaches might have been more severe. 
Oh, what a tremendous gulf hast thou escaped, that would have 
buried both thee and him in endless ruin ! Providence, indeed, 
has here been kinder to us than we to ourselves. It has reserved 
that son to be the father and protector of my children when I 
shall be away. How unjustly did I complain of being stripped 
of every comfort, when still I hear that he is happy, and insen- 
sible of our afflictions ; still kept in reserve to support his widowed 
mother, and to protect his brothers and sisters ! But what sisters 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


173 


has he left ? he has no sisters now ; they are all gone, robbed from 
me, and I am undone.” Father,” interrupted my son, “ I beg 
you will give me leave to read this letter ; I know it will please 
you.” Upon which, with my permission, he read as follows: — 

“ Honored Sir : I have called off my imagination a few mo- 
ments from the pleasures that surround me, to fix it upon objects 
that are still more pleasing, — the dear little fireside at home. My 
fancy draws that harmless group as listening to every line of this 
with great composme. I view those faces with delight which 
never felt the deforming hand of ambition or distress ! But 
whatever your happiness may be at home, I am sure it will be 
some addition to it to hear that I am perfectly pleased with my 
situation, and every way happy here. 

“Our regiment is countermanded, and is not to leave the king- 
dom. The colonel, who professes himself my friend, takes me 
with him to all companies where he is acquainted, and after my 
first visit I generally find myself received with increased respect 

upon repeating it. I danced last night with Lady G , and 

could I forget you know whom, I might be perhaps successful. 
But it is my fate still to remember others, while I am myself for- 
gotten by most of my absent friends ; and in this number, I fear, 
sir, that I must consider you ; for I have long expected the pleas- 
ure of a letter from home, to no purpose. Olivia and Sophia, 
too, promised to write, but seem to have forgotten me. Tell 
them they are two arrant little baggages, and that I am at this 
moment in a most violent passion with them; yet still, I know 
not how, though I want to bluster a little, my heart is respond- 
ent only to softer emotions. Then tell them, sir, that after all I 
love them affectionately, and be assured of my ever remaining, 

“Your dutiful son.” 

In all our miseries,” cried I, “ what thanks have we not to 
return that one at least of our family is exempted from what we 
suffer! Heaven be his guard, and keep my boy thus happy, to 


174 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


be the supporter of his widowed mother, and the father of these 
two babes, which is all the patrimony I can now bequeath him! 
May he keep their innocence from the temptations of want, and 
be their conductor in the paths of honor ! ” I had scarcely said 
these words when a noise like that of a tumult seemed to proceed 
from the prison below ; it died away soon after, and a clanking 
of fetters was heard along the passage that led to my apartment. 
The keeper of the prison entered, holding a man all bloody, 
wounded, and fettered with the heaviest irons. I looked with 
compassion on the wretch as he approached me, but with horror 
when I found it was my own son. “ My George ! my George ! 
and do I behold thee thus ? Wounded — fettered ! Is this thy 
happiness ? is this the manner you return to me ? Oh that this 
sight could break my heart at once, and let me die ! ” 

'' Where, sir, is your fortitude ? ” returned my son, with an in- 
trepid voice. “ I must suffer ; my life is forfeited, and let them 
take it.” 

I tried to restrain my passions for a few minutes in silence, 
but I thought I should have died with the effort. “ O my boy, 
my heart weeps to behold thee thus, and I cannot, cannot help 
it. In the moment when I thought thee blessed, and prayed for 
thy safety, to behold thee thus again I Chained, wounded ! 
And yet the death of the youthful is happy. But I am old, a 
very old man, and have lived to see this day ! To see my chil- 
dren all untimely falling about me, while I continue a wretched 
survivor in the midst of ruin ! May all the curses that ever sunk 
a soul fall heavy upon the murderer of my children ! May he 
live, like me, to see ” — 

“ Hold, sir,” replied my son, “ or I shall blush for thee. How, 
sir, forgetful of your age, your holy calling, thus to arrogate the 
justice of Heaven, and fling those curses upward that must soon 
descend to crush thy own gray head with destruction ! No, sir, 
let it be your care now to fit me for that vile death I must shortly 
suffer ; to arm me with hope and resolution ; to give me courage 
to drink of that bitterness which must shortly be my portion.” 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


175 


My child, you must not die ; I am sure no offense of thine 
can deserve so vile a punishment. My George could never be 
guilty of any crime to make his ancestors ashamed of him.” 

“Mine, sir,” returned my son, “is, I fear, an unpardonable one. 
When I received my mother’s letter from home, I immediately 
came down, determined to punish the betrayer of our honor, and 
sent him an order to meet me, which he answered, not in person, 
but by dispatching four of his domestics to seize me. I wounded 
one who first assaulted me, and I fear desperately ; but the rest 
made me their prisoner. The coward is determined to put the 
law in execution against me ; the proofs are undeniable ; I have 
sent a challenge, and as I am the first transgressor upon the 
statute, I see no hopes of pardon. But you have often charmed 
me with your lessons of fortitude ; let me now, sir, find them in 
your example.” 

“ And, my son, you shall find them. I am now raised above 
this world, and all the pleasures it can produce. From this 
moment I break from my heart all the ties that held it down to 
earth, and will prepare to fit us both for eternity. Yes, my son, 
I will point out the way, and my soul shall guide yours in the 
ascent, for we will take our flight together. I now see and am 
convinced you can expect no pardon here ; and I can only ex- 
hort you to seek it at that greatest tribunal where we both shall 
shortly answer. But let us not be niggardly in our exhortation, 
but let all our fellow-prisoners have a share. — Good jailer, let 
them be permitted to stand here while I attempt to improve 
them.” Thus saying, I made an effort to rise from my straw, but 
wanted strength, and was able only to recline against the wall. 
The prisoners assembled themselves according to my directions, 
for they loved to hear my counsel ; my son and his mother sup- 
ported me on either side ; I looked and saw that none were want- 
ing, and then addressed them with the following exhortation. 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


1 76 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


THE EQUAL DEALINGS OF PROVIDENCE DEMONSTRATED WITH REGARD TO 
THE HAPPY AND THE MISERABLE HERE BELOW: THAT, FROM THE 
NATURE OF PLEASURE AND PAIN, THE WRETCHED MUST BE REPAID 
THE BALANCE OF THEIR SUFFERINGS IN THE LIFE HEREAFTER. 



Y friends, my children, and fellow-sufferers, when I reflect 


IVJ. on the distribution of good and evil here below, I find 
that much has been given man to enjoy, yet still more to suffer. 
Though we should examine the whole world we shall not find one 
man so happy as to have nothing left to wish for ; but we daily 
see thousands who, by suicide, show us they have nothing left 
to hope. In this life, then, it appears that we cannot be entirely 
blessed, but yet we may be completely miserable. 

“ Why man should thus feel pain ; why our wretchedness should 
be requisite in the formation of universal felicity ; why, when all 
other systems are made perfect by the perfection of their sub- 
ordinate parts, the great system should require for its perfection 
parts that are not only subordinate to others, but imperfect in 
themselves, — these are questions that never can be explained, 
and might be useless if known. On this subject Providence has 
thought fit to elude our curiosity, satisfied with granting us motives 
to consolation. 

“ In this situation man has called in the friendly assistance of 
philosophy, and Heaven, seeing the incapacity of that to console 
him, has given him the aid of religion. The consolations of phi- 
losophy are very amusing, but often fallacious. -It tells us that 
life is filled with comforts, if we will but enjoy them ; and on the 
other hand, that though we unavoidably have miseries here, life 
is short, and they will soon be over. Thus do these consolations 
destroy each other ; for, if life is a place of comfort, its shortness 
must be misery, and if it be long, our griefs are protracted. Thus 
philosophy is weak ; but religion comforts in a higher strain. 
Man is here, it tells us, fitting up his mind, and preparing it for 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


177 


another abode. When the good man leaves the body and is all 
a glorious mind, he will find he has been making himself a heaven 
of happiness here ; while the wretch that has been maimed and 
contaminated by his vices, shrinks from his body with terror, 
and finds that he has anticipated the vengeance of Heaven. To 
religion, then, we must hold in every circumstance of life for 
our truest comfort ; for if already we are happy, it is a pleasure 
to think that we can make that happiness unending; and if we 
are miserable, it is very consoling to think that there is a place 
of rest. Thus to the fortunate, religion holds out a continuance 
of bliss ; to the wretched, a change from pain. 

But though religion is very kind to all men, it has promised 
peculiar rewards to the unhappy ; the sick, the naked, the house- 
less, the heavy laden, and the prisoner, have ever most frequent 
promises in our sacred law. The Author of our religion every- 
where professes himself the wretch’s friend, and, unlike the false 
ones of this world, bestows all his caresses upon the forlorn. 
The unthinking have censured this as partiality, as a preference 
without merit to deserve it. But they never reflect that it is not 
in the power even of Heaven itself to make the offer of unceas- 
ing felicity as great a gift to the happy as to the miserable. To 
the first, eternity is but a single blessing, since at most it but in- 
creases what they already possess. To the latter, it is a double 
advantage ; for it diminishes their pain here, and rewards them 
with heavenly bliss hereafter. 

“ But Providence is in another respect kinder to the poor than 
the rich ; for as it thus makes the life after death more desirable, 
so it smooths the passage there. The wretched have had a long 
familiarity with every face of terror. The man of sorrows lays 
himself quietly down, without possessions to regret, and but few 
ties to stop his departure ; he feels only nature’s pang in the final 
separation, and this is no way greater than he has often fainted 
under before ; for after a certain degree of pain, every new 
breach that death opens in the constitution, nature kindly covers 
with insensibility 


178 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


“ Thus Providence has given the wretched two advantages over 
the happy in this life, — greater felicity in dying, and in heaven 
all that superiority of pleasure which arises from contrasted en- 
joyment. And this superiority, my friends, is no small advan- 
tage, and seems to be one of the pleasures of the poor man in 
the parable for though he was already in heaven, and felt all 
the raptiues it could give, yet it was mentioned as an addition 
to his happiness that he had once been wretched, and now was 
comforted ; that he had known what it was to be miserable, and 
now felt what it was to be happy. 

“Thus, my friends, you see religion does what philosophy 
could never 4o: it shows the equal dealings of Heaven to the 
happy and the unhappy, and levels all human enjoyments to 
nearly the same standard. It gives to both rich and poor' the 
same happiness hereafter, and equal hopes to aspire after it ; but 
if the rich have the advantage of enjoying pleasure here, the 
poor have the endless satisfaction of knowing what it was once 
to be miserable, when crowned with endless felicity hereafter; 
and even though this should be called a small advantage, yet, 
being an eternal one, it must make up by duration what the tem- 
poral happiness of the great may have exceeded by intenseness. 

“These are, therefore, the consolations which the wretched 
have peculiar to themselves, and in which they are above the rest 
of mankind ; in other respects they are below them. They who 
would know the miseries of the poor must see life and endure 
it. To declaim on the temporal advantages they enjoy is only 
repeating what none either believe or practice. The men who 
have the necessaries of living are not poor, and they who want 
them must be miserable. Yes, my friends, we must be miserable. 
No vain efforts of a refined imagination can soothe the wants of 
nature, can give elastic sweetness to the dank vapor of a dungeon, 
or ease to the throbbings of a broken heart. Let the philosopher 
from his couch of softness tell us that we can resist all these; 
alas ! the effort by which we resist them is still the greatest pain. 

1 See Luke xvi. 19-31. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 179 

Death is slight, and any man may sustain it; but torments are 
dreadful, and these no man can endure. 

“To us, then, my friends, the promises of happiness in heaven 
should be peculiarly dear ; for if our reward be in this life alone, 
we are then indeed of all men the most miserable. When I look 
round these gloomy walls, made to terrify as well as to confine 
us ; this light, that only serves to show the horrors of the place ; 
those shackles that tyranny has imposed, or crime made neces- 
sary ; when I survey these emaciated looks, and hear those groans, 
O my friends, what a glorious exchange would heaven be for 
these ! To fly through regions unconfined as air, to bask in the 
sunshine of eternal bliss, to carol over endless hymns of praise, 
to have no master to threaten or insult us, but the form of Good- 
ness Himself forever in our eyes,— when I think of these things, 
death becomes the messenger of very glad tidings ; when I think 
of these things, his sharpest arrow becomes the staff of my sup- 
port ; when I think . of these things, what is there in life worth 
having? when I think of these things, what is there that should not 
be spurned away ? Kings in their palaces should groan for such 
advantages ; but we, humbled as we are, should yearn for them. 

“ And shall these things be ours ? Ours they will certainly be 
if we but try for them ; and, what is a comfort, we are shut out 
from many temptations that would retard our pursuit. -Only let 
us try for them, and they will certainly be ours ; and what is still 
a comfort, shortly too ; for if we look back on a past life, it ap- 
pears but a very short span, and whatever we may think of the 
rest of life, it will yet be found of less duration ; as we grow 
older, the days seem to grow shorter, and our intimacy with 
time ever lessens the perception of his stay. Then let us take 
comfort now, for we shall soon be at our journey’s end ; we shall 
soon lay down the heavy burden laid by Heaven upon us ; and 
though death, the only friend of the wretched, for a little while 
mocks the weary traveler with the view, and, like his horizon, 
still flies before him, yet the time will certainly and shortly come 
when we shall cease from our toil ; when the luxurious great ones 


i8o 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


of the world shall no more tread us to the earth ; when we shall 
think with pleasure of our sufferings below; when we shall be 
surrounded with our friends, or such as deserved our friendship ; 
when our bliss shall be unutterable, and still, to crown all, un- 
ending.” 


CHAPTER XXX. 


HAPPIER PROSPECTS BEGIN TO APPEAR. LET US BE INFLEXIBLE, AND 
FORTUNE WILL AT LAST CHANGE IN OUR FAVOR. 

HEN I had thus finished, and my audience was retired, 



V V the jailer, who was one of the most humane of his profes- 
sion, hoped I would not be displeased, as what he did was but his 
duty, observing that he must be obliged to remove my son into 
a stronger cell, but that he should be permitted to revisit me 
every morning. I thanked him for his clemency, and grasping 
my boy’s hand, bade him farewell, and be mindful of the great 
duty that was before him. 

I again, therefore, laid me down, and one of my little ones sat 
by my bedside reading, when Mr. Jenkinson, entering, informed 
me that there was news of my daughter ; for that she was seen 
by a person about two hours before in a strange gentleman’s com- 
pany ; and that they had stopped at a neighboring village for re- 
freshment, and seemed as if returning to town. He had scarcely 
delivered this news when the jailer came, with looks of haste and 
pleasure, to inform me that my daughter was found. Moses 
came running in a moment after, crying out that his sister Sophy 
was below and coming up with our old friend Mr. Burchell. 

Just as he delivered this news, my dearest girl entered, and, 
with looks almost wild with pleasure, ran to kiss me in a trans- 
port of affection. Her mother’s tears and silence also showed 
her pleasure. Here, papa,” cried the charming girl, “ here is 
the brave man to whom I owe my delivery ; to this gentleman’s 
intrepidity I am indebted for my happiness and safety” — A 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


i8i 

kiss from Mr. Burchell, whose pleasure seemed even greater than 
hers, interrupted what she was going to add. 

“Ah, Mr. Burchell,” cried I, “this is but a wretched habita- 
tion you now find us in ; and we are now very different from 
what you last saw us. You were ever our friend; we have long 
discovered our errors with regard to you, and repented of our in- 
gratitude. After the vile usage you then received at our hands, 
I am almost ashamed to behold your face ; yet I hope you’ll for- 
give me, as I was deceived by a base, ungenerous wretch, who, 
under the mask of friendship, has undone me.” 

“ It is impossible,” cried Mr. Burchell, “ that I should forgive 
you, as you never deserved my resentment. I partly saw your 
delusion then, and as it was out of my power to restrain, I could 
only pity it.” 

“It was ever my conjecture,” cried I, “that your mind was 
noble, but now I find it so. — But tell me, my dear child, how 
thou hast been relieved, or who the ruffians were who carried 
thee away.” 

“ Indeed, sir,” replied she, “ as to the villain who carried me 
off, I am yet ignorant ; for, as my mamma and I were walking 
out, he came behind us, and, almost before I could call for help, 
forced me into the post chaise, and in an instant the horses drove 
away. I met several on the road, to whom I cried out for assist- 
ance, but they disregarded my entreaties. In the mean time the 
ruffian himself used every art to hinder me from crying out ; he 
flattered and threatened by turns, and swore that if I continued 
but silent he intended me no harm. In the mean time I had 
broken the canvas that he had drawn up, and whom should I 
perceive at some distance but your old friend Mr. Burchell, walk- 
ing along with his usual swiftness, with the great stick for which 
we used so much to ridicule him. As soon as we came within 
hearing, I called out to him by name, and entreated his help. I 
repeated my exclamations several times, upon which with a very 
loud voice he bid the postilion stop ; but the boy took no notice, 
but drove on with still greater speed. I now thought he could 


i 82 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


never overtake us, when, in less than a minute, I saw Mr. Bur- 
chell come running up by the side of the horses, and with one 
blow knock the postilion to the ground. The horses, when he 
was fallen, soon stopped of themselves, and the ruffian, stepping 
out, with oaths and menaces drew his sword, and ordered him 
at his peril to retire ; but Mr. Burchell, running up, shivered his 
sword to pieces, and then pursued him for near a quarter of a 
mile ; but he made his escape. I was at this time come out my- 
self, willing to assist my deliverer ; but he soon returned to me in 
triumph. The postilion, who was recovered, was going to make 
his escape too ; but Mr. Burchell ordered him at his peril to 
mount again and drive back to town. Finding it impossible to 
resist, he reluctantly complied, though the wound he had received 
seemed to me at least to be dangerous. He continued to com- 
plain of the pain as we drove along, so that he at last excited 
Mr. Burchell’s compassion, who at my request exchanged him 
for another at an inn where we called on our return.” 

"Welcome, then,” cried I, "my child ! — and thou, her gallant 
deliverer, a thousand welcomes ! Though our cheer is but 
wretched, yet our hearts are ready to receive you. And now, 
Mr. Burchell, as you have delivered my girl, if you think her a 
recompense, she is yours ; if you can stoop to an alliance with a 
family so poor as mine, take her ; obtain her consent, as I know 
you have her heart, and you have mine. And let me tell you, 
sir, that I give you no small treasure ; she has been celebrated 
for beauty, it is true, but that is not my meaning ; I give you up 
a treasure in her mind.” 

"But I suppose, sir,” cried Mr. Burchell, "that you are ap- 
prised of my circumstances, and of my incapacity to support her 
as she deserves ? ” 

"If your present objections,” replied I, "be meant as an eva- 
sion of my offer, I desist ; but I know no man so worthy to de- 
serve her as you ; and if I could give her thousands, and thou- 
sands sought her from me, yet my honest, brave Burchell should 
be my dearest choice.” 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


183 

To all this his silence alone seemed to give a mortifying refusal, 
and without the least reply to my offer, he demanded if he could 
not be furnished with refreshments from the next inn ; to which 
being answered in the affirmative, he ordered them to send in the 
best dinner that could be provided upon such short notice. He 
bespoke also a dozen of their best wine, and some cordials for 
me ; adding, with a smile, that he would stretch a little for once, 
and, though in a prison, asserted he was never better disposed to 
be merry. The waiter soon made his appearance, with prepara- 
tions for dinner; a table was lent us by the jailer, who seemed 
remarkably assiduous ; the wine was disposed in order, and two 
very well-dressed dishes were brought in. 

My daughter had not yet heard of her poor brother’s melan- 
choly situation, and we all seemed unwilling to damp her cheer- 
fulness by the relation. But it was in vain that I attempted to 
appear cheerful ; the circumstances of my unfortunate son broke 
through all efforts to dissemble ; so that I was at last obliged to 
damp our mirth by relating his misfortunes, and wishing that he 
might be permitted to share with us in this little interval of satis- 
faction. After my guests were recovered from the consternation 
my account had produced, I requested also that Mr. Jenkinson, 
a fellow-prisoner, might be admitted, and the jailer granted my 
request with an air of unusual submission. The clanking of my 
son’s irons was no sooner heard along the passage than his sister 
ran impatiently to meet him; while Mr. Burchell, in the mean 
time, asked me if my son’s name was George ; to which replying 
in the affirmative, he still continued silent. As soon as my boy 
entered the room, I could perceive he regarded Mr. Burchell 
with a look of astonishment and reverence. “ Come on,” cried 
I, my son ; though we are fallen very low, yet Providence has 
been pleased to grant us some small relaxation from pain. Thy 
sister is restored to us, and there is her deliverer ; to that brave man 
it is that I am indebted for yet having a daughter. Give him, my 
boy, the hand of friendship ; he deserves our warmest gratitude.” 

My son seemed all this while regardless of what I said, and 


184 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


Still continued fixed at a respectful distance. My dear brother,” 
cried his sister, “ why don’t you thank my good deliverer ? the 
brave should ever love each other.” 

He still continued his silence and astonishment, till our guest 
at last perceived himself to be known, and, assuming all his 
native dignity, desired my son to come forward. Never before 
had I seen anything so truly majestic as the air he assumed upon 
this occasion. The greatest object in the universe, says a qertain 
philosopher, is a good man struggling with adversity ; yet there 
is still a greater, which is the good man that comes to relieve it. 
After he had regarded my son for some time with a superior air, 
“I again find,” said he, “unthinking boy, that the same crime” — 
But here he was interrupted by one of the jailer’s servants, who 
came to inform us that a person of distinction, who had driven 
into town with a chariot and several attendants, sent his respects 
to the gentleman that was with us, and begged to know when he 
should think proper to be waited upon. “ Bid the fellow wait,” 
cried our guest, “till I shall have leisure to receive him;” and 
then turning to my son, “ I again find, sir,” proceeded he, “ that 
you are guilty of the same offense for which you once had my 
reproof, and for which the law is now preparing its justest pun- 
ishments. You imagine, perhaps, that a contempt for your own 
life gives you a right to take that of another ; but where, sir, is 
the difference between a duelist, who hazards a life of no value, 
and the murderer, who acts with greater security ? Is it any 
diminution of the gamester’s fraud when he alleges that he has 
staked a counter ? ” ^ 

“Alas! sir,” cried I, “whoever you are, pity the poor mis- 
guided creature ; for what he has done was in obedience to a de- 
luded mother, who, in the bitterness of her resentment, required 
him, upon her blessing, to avenge her quarrel. Here, sir, is the 
letter, which will serve to convince you of her imprudence, and 
diminish his guilt.” 

1 “ Alleges that he has staked a counter,” i.e., says that he has wagered 
a spurious, or imitation, coin. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


185 

He took the letter and hastily read it over. “ This,” said he, 
“ though not a perfect excuse, is such a palliation of his fault as 
induces me to forgive him. — And now, sir,” continued he, kindly 
taking my son by the hand, “ I see you are surprised at finding 
me here ; but I have often visited prisons upon occasions less in- 
teresting. I am now come to see justice done a worthy man, for 
whom I have the most sincere esteem. I have long been a dis- 
guised spectator of thy father’s benevolence. I have at his little 
dwelling enjoyed respect uncontaminated by flattery; and have 
received that happiness that courts could not give, from the 
amusing simplicity round his fireside. My nephew has been ap- 
prised of my intentions in coming here, and I find is arrived. It 
would be wronging him and you to condemn him without exam- 
ination ; if there be injury, there shall be redress ; and this I may 
say without boasting, that none have ever taxed the injustice of 
Sir William Thornhill.” 

We now found the personage whom we had so long enter- 
tained as a harmless, amusing companion was no other than the 
celebrated Sir William Thornhill, to whose virtues and singular- 
ities scarcely any were strangers. The poor Mr. Burchell was in 
reality a man of large fortune and great interest, to whom senates 
listened with applause, and whom party heard with conviction ; 
who was the friend of his country, but loyal to his king. My 
poor wife, recollecting her former familiarity, seemed to shrink 
with apprehension ; but Sophia, who a few moments before thought 
him her own, now perceiving the immense distance to which he 
was removed by fortune, was unable to conceal her tears. 

Ah, sir,” cried my wife, with a piteous aspect, “ how is it 
possible that I can ever have your forgiveness ? The slights you 
received from me the last time I had the honor of seeing you at 
our house, and the jokes which I audaciously threw out — these 
jokes, sir, I fear, can never be forgiven.” 

“ My dear, good lady,” returned he, with a smile, “ if you had 
your joke, I had my answer; I’ll leave it to all the company if 
mine were not as good as yours. To say the truth, I know no- 


i86 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


body whom I am disposed to be angry with at present but the 
fellow who so frighted my little girl here. I had not even time 
to examine the rascal’s person so as to describe him in an adver- 
tisement. — Can you tell me, Sophia, my dear, whether you should 
know him again ? ” 

“ Indeed, sir,” replied she, I can’t be positive ; yet now I 
recollect he had a large mark over one of his eyebrows.” “ I 
ask pardon, madam,” interrupted Jenkinson, who was by, '^but 
be so good as to inform me if the fellow wore his own red 
hair.”i '‘Yes, I think* so,” cried Sophia. “And did your 
honor,” continued he, turning to Sir William, “observe the 
length of his legs ? ” “I can’t be sure of their length,” cried 
the baronet, “ but I am convinced of their swiftness ; for he out- 
ran me, which is what I thought few men in the kingdom could 
have done.” “Please your honor,” cried Jenkinson, “I know 
the man, — it is certainly the same ; the best runner in England ; 
he has beaten Pinwire of Newcastle; Timothy Baxter is his 
name. I know him perfectly, and the very place of his retreat 
this moment. If your honor will bid Mr. Jailer let two of his 
men go with me, I’ll engage to produce him to you in an hour at 
farthest.” Upon this the jailer was called, who instantly appear- 
ing, Sir William demanded if he knew him. “Yes, please your 
honor,” replied the jailer, “ I know Sir William Thornhill well, 
and everybody that knows anything of him will desire to know 
more of him.” “Well, then,” said the baronet, “my request is 
that you will permit this man and two of your servants to go 
upon a message by my authority ; and as I am in the commission 
of the peace, I undertake to secure you.” 2 “Your promise is 
sufficient,” replied the other, “and you may at a moment’s warn- 
ing send them over England whenever your honor thinks fit.” 

In pursuance of the jailer’s compliance, Jenkinson was dis- 
patched in search of Timothy Baxter, while we were amused with 

1 That is, wore no wig. (See Note i, p. 76.) 

2 “ As I am,” etc., i.e., as I am justice of the peace (by the commission 
issuing under the great seal of England), I guarantee you against loss. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


\ 


187 


the assiduity of our youngest boy Bill, who had just come in and 
climbed up to Sir William’s neck in order to kiss him. His mother 
was immediately going to chastise his familiarity, but the worthy 
man prevented her ; and taking the child, all ragged as he was, 
upon his knee, “ What, Bill, you chubby rogue,” cried he, “ do 
you remember your old friend Burchell ? — and Dick too, my hon- 
est veteran, are you here ? You shall find I have not forgot you.” 
So saying, he gave each a large piece of gingerbread, which the 
poor fellows ate very heartily, as they had got that morning but 
a very scanty breakfast. 

We now sat down to dinner, which was almost cold; but 
previously, my arm still continuing painful. Sir William wrote a 
.prescription, for he had made the study of physic his amuse- 
ment, and was more than moderately skilled in the profession ; 
this being sent to an apothecary who lived in the place, my arm 
was dressed, and I found almost instantaneous relief. We were 
waited upon at dinner by the jailer himself, who was willing to 
do our guest all the honor in his power. But before we had well 
dined, another message was brought from his nephew, desiring 
permission to appear in order to vindicate his innocence and 
honor; with which request the baronet complied, and desired 
Mr. Thornhill to be introduced. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

FORMER BENEVOLENCE NOW REPAID WITH UNEXPECTED INTEREST. 

M r. THORNHILL made his appearance with a smile, which 
he seldom wanted, and was going to embrace his uncle, 
which the other repulsed with an air of disdain. “No fawning, 
sir, at present,” cried the baronet, with a look of severity ; “ the 
only way to my heart is by the road of honor ; but here I only 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


1 88 

see complicated instances of falsehood, cowardice, and oppres- 
sion. How is it, sir, that this poor man, for whom I know you 
professed a friendship, is used thus hardly ? His daughter enticed 
away as a recompense for his hospitality, and he himself thrown 
into prison, perhaps but for resenting the insult ? His son, too, 
whom you feared to face as a man ” — 

“ Is it possible, sir,” interrupted his nephew, '' that my uncle 
could object to that as a crime which his repeated instructions 
alone have persuaded me to avoid ? ” 

“ Your rebuke,” cried Sir William, ^‘is just ; you have acted, in 
this instance, prudently and well, though not quite as your father 
would have done; my brother, indeed, was the soul of honor; 
but thou — Yes, you have acted, in this instance, perfectly 
right, and it has my warmest approbation.” 

“ And I hope,” said his nephew, “ that the rest of my conduct 
will not be found to deserve censure. I appeared, sir, with this 
gentleman’s daughter at some places of public amusement ; thus, 
what was levity, scandal called by a harsher name. I waited on 
her father in person, willing to clear the thing to his satisfaction, 
and he received me only with insult and abuse. As for the rest, 
with regard to his being here, my attorney and steward can best 
inform you, as I commit the management of business entirely to 
them. If he has contracted debts, and is unwilling or even un- 
able to pay them, it is their business to proceed in this manner ; 
and I see no hardship or injustice in pursuing the most legal 
means of redress.” 

“ If this,” cried Sir William, be as you have stated it, there is 
nothing unpardonable in your offense ; and though your conduct 
might have been more generous in not suffering this gentleman 
to be oppressed by subordinate tyranny, yet it has been at least 
equitable.” 

‘‘ He cannot contradict a single particular,” replied the Squire ; 
” I defy him to do so ; and several of my servants are ready to 
attest what I say. Thus, sir,” continued he, finding that I was 
silent— “for in fact I could not contradict him — thus, sir, my own 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


189 

innocence is vindicated ; but though at your entreaty I am ready 
to forgive this gentleman every other offense, yet his attempts to 
lessen me in your esteem excite a resentment that I cannot gov- 
ern ; and this, too, at a time when his son was actually preparing 
to take away my life ; this, I say, was such guilt that I am deter- 
mined to let the law take its course. I have here the challenge 
that was sent me, and two witnesses to prove it ; one of my ser- 
vants has been wounded ‘dangerously; and even though my 
uncle himself should dissuade me, which I know he will not, yet 
I will see public justice done, and he shall suffer for it.” 

Thou monster,” cried my wife, hast thou not had vengeance 
enough already, but must my poor boy feel thy cruelty ? I hope 
that good Sir William will protect us ; for my son is as innocent 
as a child — I am sure he is — and never did harm to man.” 

“ Madam,” replied the good man, '' your wishes for his safety 
are not greater than mine; but I am sorry to find his guilt too 
plain; and if my nephew persists” — But the appearance of 
Jenkinson and the jailer’s two servauts now called off our atten- 
tion, who entered, hauling in a tall man, very genteelly dressed, 
and answering the description already given of the ruffian who 
had carried off my daughter. ''Here,” cried Jenkinson, pulling 
him in, " here we have him ; and if ever there was a candidate 
for Tyburn,! this is one.” 

The moment Mr. Thornhill perceived the prisoner, and Jen- 
kinson, who had him in custody, he seemed to shrink back with 
terror. His face became pale with conscious guilt, and he would 
have withdrawn; but Jenkinson, who perceived his design, 
stopped him. "What! Squire,” cried he, "are you ashamed of 
your two old acquaintances, Jenkinson and Baxter? but this is the 
way that all great men forget their friends, though I am resolved 
we will not forget you. — Our prisoner, please your honor,” con- 
tinued he, turning to Sir William, "has already confessed all. 
This is the gentleman reported to be so dangerously wounded. 

1 Tyburn Gate, near London, was for many years one of the chief places 
for the public execution of criminals. 


190 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


He declares that it was Mr. Thornhill who first put him upon this 
affair ; that he gave him the clothes he now wears, to appear like 
a gentleman, and furnished him with the post chaise. The plan 
was laid between them that he should carry off the young lady 
to a place of safety, and that there he should threaten and ter- 
rify her ; but Mr. Thornhill was to come in, in the mean time, as 
if by accident, to her rescue ; and that they should fight awhile, 
and then he was to run off, by which Mr. Thornhill would have 
the better opportunity of gaining her affections himself, under the 
character of her defender.” 

Sir William remembered the coat to have been worn by his 
nephew, and all the rest the prisoner himself confirmed by a 
more circumstantial account, concluding that Mr. Thornhill had 
often declared to him that he was in love with both sisters at the 
same time. 

'' Heavens ! ” cried Sir William, what a viper have I been fos- 
tering in my bosom ! And so fond of public justice, too, as he 
seemed to be ! But he shall have it ! secure him, Mr. Jailer ! 
— yet, hold; I fear there is not legal evidence to detain him.” 

Upon this Mr. Thornhill, with the utmost humility, entreated 
that two such abandoned wretches might not be admitted as 
evidences against him, but that his servants should be examined. 
‘‘Your servants ! ” replied Sir William ; “ wretch! call them yours 
no longer ; but come, let us hear what those fellows have to say. — 
Let his butler be called.” 

When the butler was introduced, he soon perceived by his 
former master’s looks that all his power was now over. “ Tell 
me,” cried Sir William, sternly, “ have you ever seen your master, 
and that fellow dressed up in his clothes, in company together ? ” 
“Yes, please your honor,” cried the butler; “a thousand times.” 
“How!” interrupted young Mr. Thornhill, “this to my face !” 
“Yes,” replied the butler, “or to any man’s face. To tell you 
a truth. Master Thornhill, I never either loved or liked you, and 
I don’t care if I tell you now a piece of my mind.” “ Now, 
then,” cried Jenkinson, “tell his honor whether you know any- 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


191 

thing of me.” “ I can’t say,” replied the butler, “ that I know 
much good of you. The night that gentleman’s daughter was 
deluded to our house, you were one of them.” “ So, then,” 
cried Sir William, “ I find you have brought a very fine witness 
to prove your innocence, thou stain to humanity ! to associate 
with such wretches ! — But,” continuing his examination, “ you 
tell me, Mr. Butler, that this was the person who brought him 
this old gentleman’s daughter.” "No, please your honor,” replied 
the butler, " he did not bring her, for the Squire himself under- 
took that business ; but he brought the priest that pretended to 
marry them.” " It is but too true,” cried Jenkinson ; " I cannot 
deny it ; that was the employment assigned to me, and I confess 
it to my confusion.” 

" Good heavens ! ” exclaimed the baronet, " how every new 
discovery of his villainy alarms me ! All his guilt is now too 
plain, and I find his prosecution was dictated by tyranny, cow- 
ardice, and revenge. — At my request, Mr. Jailer, set this young 
officer, now your prisoner, free, and trust to me for the conse- 
quences. I’ll make it my business to set the affair in a proper 
light to my friend the magistrate, who has committed him. — But 
where is the unfortunate young lady herself ? Let her appear 
to confront this wretch. I long to know by what arts he induced 
her to go. Entreat her to come in. Where is she ? ” 

" Ah, sir,” said I, " that question stings me to the heart. I was 
once, indeed, happy in a daughter, but her miseries ” — Another 
interruption here prevented me ; for who should make her appear- 
ance but Miss Arabella Wilmot, who was next day to have been 
married to Mr. Thornhill ! Nothing could equal her surprise at 
seeing Sir William and his nephew here before her ; for her arrival 
was quite accidental. It happened that she and the old gentle- 
man, her father, were passing through the town on their way to 
her aunt’s, who had insisted that her nuptials with Mr. Thornhill 
should be consummated at her house ; but stopping for refresh- 
ment, they put up at an inn at the other end of the town. It 
was there, from the window, that the young lady happened to 


192 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


observe one of my little boys playing in the street, and instantly 
sending a footman to bring the child to her, she learned from him 
some account of our misfortunes ; but was still kept ignorant of 
young Mr. Thornhill’s being the cause. Though her father made 
several remonstrances on the impropriety of going to a prison to 
visit us, yet they were ineffectual ; she desired the child to con- 
duct her, which he did, and it was thus she surprised us at a junc- 
ture so unexpected. 

Nor can I go on without a reflection on those accidental 
meetings which, though they happen every day, seldom excite 
our surprise but upon some extraordinary occasion. To what a 
fortuitous concurrence do we not owe every pleasure and con- 
venience of our lives ! How many seeming accidents must unite 
before we can be clothed or fed ! The peasant must be disposed 
to labor, the shower must fall, the wind fill the merchant’s sail, 
or numbers must want the usual supply. 

We all continued silent for some moments, while my charming 
pupil — which was the name I generally gave this young lady — 
united in her looks compassion and astonishment, which gave new 
finishings to her beauty. “ Indeed, my dear Mr. Thornhill,” 
cried she to the Squire, who she supposed was come here to suc- 
cor, and not to oppress us, “ I take it a little unkindly that you 
should come here without me, or never inform me of the situa- 
tion of a family so dear to us both ; you know I should take as 
much pleasure in contributing to the relief of my reverend old 
master here, whom I shall ever esteem, as you can. But I find 
that, like your uncle, you take a pleasure in doing good in 
secret.” 

“He find pleasure in doing good!” cried Sir William, inter- 
rupting her. “No, my dear, his pleasures are as base as he is. 
You see in him, madam, as complete a villain as ever disgraced 
humanity; a wretch who, after having deluded this poor man’s 
daughter, after plotting against the innocence of her sister, has 
thrown the father into prison, and the eldest son into fetters be- 
cause he had the courage to face the betrayer. And give me 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


193 

leave, madam, now to congratulate you upon an escape from 
such a monster.” 

“O goodness!” cried the lovely girl, *^how have I been de- 
ceived 1 Mr. Thornhill informed me for certain that this gen- 
tleman’s eldest son. Captain Primrose, was gone off to America 
with his new-married lady.” 

“ My sweetest miss,” cried my wife, “he has told you nothing 
but falsehoods. My son George never left the kingdom, nor ever 
was married. Though you have forsaken him, he has always 
loved you too well to think of anybody else ; and I have heard 
him say he would die a bachelor for your sake.” She then pro- 
ceeded to expatiate upon the sincerity of her son’s passion ; she 
set his duel with Mr. Thornhill in a proper light; from thence 
she made a rapid digression to the Squire’s pretended marriages ; 
and ended with a most insulting picture of his cowardice. 

“ Good heaven ! ” cried Miss Wilmot, “ how very near have 
I been to the brink of ruin ! Ten thousand falsehoods has this 
gentleman told me. He had at last art enough to persuade me 
that my promise to the only man I esteemed was no longer 
binding, since he had been unfaithful. By his falsehoods I was 
taught to detest one equally brave and generous.” 

By this time my son was freed from the incumbrances of jus- 
tice, as the person supposed to be wounded was detected to be 
an impostor. Mr. Jenkinson, also, who had acted as his valet de 
chambre^ had dressed up his hair, and furnished him with what- 
ever was necessary to make a genteel appearance. He now 
therefore entered, handsomely dressed in his regimentals ; and, 
without vanity (for I am above it), he appeared -as handsome a 
fellow as ever wore a military dress. As he entered, he made 
Miss Wilmot a modest and distant bow, for he was not as yet 
acquainted with the change which the eloquence of his mother 
had wrought in his favor. But no decorums could restrain the 
impatience of his blushing sweetheart to be forgiven. Her tears, 
her looks, all contributed to discover the real sensations of her 
heart for having forgotten her former promise, and having suf- 


194 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


fered herself to be deluded by an impostor. My son appeared 
amazed at her condescension, and could scarcely believe it real. 
“ Sure, madam,” cried he, this is but delusion I I can never 
have merited this ? To be blessed thus is to be too happy.” 
" No, sir,” replied she; “ I have been deceived, basely deceived, 
else nothing could have ever made me unjust to my promise. You 
know my friendship, you have long known it ; but forget what I 
have done, and as you once had my warmest vows of constancy, 
you shall now have them repeated ; and be assured that if your 
Arabella cannot be yours, she shall never be another’s.” '‘And 
no other’s you shall be,” cried Sir William, “ if I have any influ- 
ence with your father.” 

This hint was sufficient for my son Moses, who immediately 
flew to the inn where the old gentleman was, to inform him of 
every circumstance that had happened. But in the mean time 
the Squire, perceiving that he was on every side undone, now 
finding that no hopes were left from flattery or dissimulation, 
concluded that his wisest way would be to turn and face his pur- 
suers. Thus, laying aside all shame, he appeared the open, hardy 
villain. “ I find, then,” cried he, “ that I am to expect no justice 
here; but I am resolved it shall be done me. — You shall know, 
sir,” turning to Sir William, “ I am no longer a poor dependent 
upon your favors; I scorn them. Nothing can keep Miss Wil- 
mot’s fortune from me, which, I thank her father’s assiduity, is 
pretty large. The articles ^ and a bond for her fortune are 
signed, and safe in my possession. It was her fortune, not her 
person, that induced me to wish for this match ; and possessed 
of the one, let who will take the other.” 

This was an alarming blow. Sir William was sensible of the 
justice pf his claims, for he had been instrumental in drawing up 
the marriage articles himself. Miss Wilmot, therefore, perceiving 
that her fortune was irretrievably lost, turning to my son, asked if 
the loss of fortune could lessen her value to him. “ Though for- 

1 Articles of marriage ; an agreement respecting rights of property made 
between those about to marry. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 195 

tune,” said she, “is out of my power, at least I have my hand to 
give.” 

“Arid that, madam,” cried her real lover, “was indeed all that 
you ever had to give — at least all that I ever thought worth the 
acceptance. And I now protest, my Arabella, by all that’s 
happy, your want of fortune this moment increases my pleasure, 
as it serves to convince my sweet girl of my sincerity.” 

Mr. Wilmot now entering, he seemed not a little pleased at the 
danger his daughter had just escaped, and readily consented to 
a dissolution of the match; but finding that her fortune, which 
was secured to Mr. Thornhill by bond, would not be given up, 
nothing could exceed his disappointment. He now saw that his 
money must all go to enrich one who had no fortune of his own. 
He could bear his being a rascal, but to want an equivalent to 
his daughter’s fortune was wormwood.^ He sat, therefore, for 
some minutes employed in the most mortifying speculations, till 
Sir William attempted to lessen his anxiety. “ I must confess, 
sir,” cried he, “that your present disappointnient does not en- 
tirely displease me. Your immoderate passion for wealth is now 
justly punished. But though the young lady cannot be rich, she 
has still a competence sufficient to give content. Here you see 
an honest young soldier, who is willing to take her without for- 
tune ; they have long loved each other ; and for the friendship I 
bear his father, my interest shall not be wanting in his promo- 
tion. Leave, then, that ambition which disappoints you, and for 
once admit that happiness which courts your acceptance.” 

“ Sir William,” replied the old gentleman, ' be assured I never 
yet forced her inclinations, nor will I now. If she still continues 
to love this young gentleman, let her have him with all my heart. 
There is still, thank Heaven, some fortune left, and your promise 
will make it something more. Only let my old friend here [mean- 
ing me] give me a promise of settling six thousand pounds upon 
my girl, if ever he should come to his fortune, and I am ready 
this night to be the first to join them together.” 

I This plant is proverbial for bitterness, for which the word here stands. 


196 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


As it now remained with me to make the young couple happy, 
I readily gave a promise of making the settlement he required, 
which, to one who had such little expectations as I, was no great 
favor. We had now, therefore, the satisfaction of seeing them fly 
into each other’s arms in transport. After all my misfortunes,” 
cried my son George, “ to be thus rewarded ! Sure this is more 
than I could ever have presumed to hope for. To be possessed 
of all that’s good, and after such an interval of pain ! My 
warmest wishes could never rise so high ! ” 

“Yes, my George,” returned his lovely bride, “now let the 
wretch take my fortune ; since you are happy without it, so am 
I. Oh, what an exchange have I made from the basest of men 
to the dearest, best ! Let him enjoy our fortune ; I now can be 
happy even in indigence.” “And I promise you,” cried the 
Squire, with a malicious grin, “that I shall be very happy with 
what you despise.” “Hold, hold, sir,” cried Jenkinson, “there 
are two words to that bargain. As for that lady’s fortune, sir, 
you shall never touch a single stiver of it. — Pray, your honor,” 
continued he to Sir William, “can the Squire have this lady’s 
fortune if he be married to another ? ” “ How can you make 

such a simple demand ? ” replied the baronet ; “ undoubtedly he 
cannot.” “I am sorry for that,” cried Jenkinson; “for as this 
gentleman and I have been old fellow-sporters, I have a friend- 
ship for him. But I must declare, well as I love him, that this 
contract is not worth a tobacco stopper, for he is married already.” 
“ You lie like a rascal,” returned the Squire, who seemed roused 
by this insult ; “ I never was legajly married to any woman.” 

“Indeed, begging your honor’s pardon,” replied the other, 
“ you were ; and I hope you will show a proper return of friend- 
ship to your own honest Jenkinson, who brings you a wife ; and 
if the company restrain their curiosity a few minutes, they shall see 
her.” So saying he went off with his usual celerity, and left us all 
unable to form any probable conjecture as to his design. “ Ay, let 
him go,” cried the Squire; “whatever else I may have done, I 
defy him there. I am too old now to be frightened with squibs.” 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


197 


I am surprised,” said the baronet, “ what the fellow can in- 
tend by this. Some low piece of humor, I suppose.” “ Perhaps, 
sir,” replied I, “he may have a more serious meaning. For 
when we reflect on the various schemes this gentleman has laid 
to seduce innocence, perhaps some one, more artful than the rest, 
has been found able to deceive him. When we consider what 
numbers he has ruined, how many parents now feel with anguish 
the infamy and the contamination which he has brought into 
their families, it would not surprise me if some one of them — 
Amazement ! Do I see my lost daughter ? do I hold her ? It 
is, it is my life, my happiness! I thought thee lost, my Olivia, 
yet still I hold thee — and still thou shalt live to bless me.” The 
warmest transports of the fondest lover were not greater than 
mine, when I saw him introduce my child, and held my daugh- 
ter in my arms, whose silence only spoke her raptures. 

“ And art thou returned to me, my darling,” cried I, “ to be my 
comfort in age 1” “That she is,” cried Jenkinson; “and make 
much of her, for she is your own honorable child, and as good a 
woman as any in the whole room, let the other be who she will. — 
And as for you. Squire, as sure as you stand there, this young lady 
is your lawful wedded wife. And to convince you that I speak 
nothing but truth, here is the license by which you were married 
together.” So saying, he put the license into the baronet’s hands, 
who read it, and found it perfect in every respect. “ And now, 
gentlemen,” continued he, “ I find you are surprised at all this ; 
but a few words will explain the difficulty. That there Squire of 
renown, for whom I have a great friendship (but that’s between 
ourselves), has often employed me in doing odd little things for 
him. Among the rest, he commissioned me to procure him a 
false license and a false priest, in order to deceive this young 
lady. But as I was very much his friend, what did I do, but 
went and got a true license and a true priest, and married them 
both as fast as the cloth could make them. Perhaps you’ll think 
it was generosity that made me do all this ; but no ; to my shame 
I confess it, my only design was to keep the license, and let the 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


198 

Squire know that I could prove it upon him whenever I thought 
proper, and so make him come down whenever I wanted money.” 
A burst of pleasure now seemed to fill the whole apartment ; our 
joy reached even to the common room, where the prisoners them- 
selves sympathized. 

And shook their chains 

In transport and rude harmony. 

Happiness was expanded upon every face, and even Olivia’s 
cheek seemed flushed with pleasure. To be thus restored to 
reputation, to friends and fortune at once, was a rapture suffi- 
cient to stop the progress of decay, and restore former health and 
vivacity. But perhaps among all there was not one who felt sin- 
cerer pleasure than I. Still holding the dear loved child in iny 
arms, I asked my heart if these transports were not delusion. 
“How could you,” cried I, turning to Mr. Jenkinson, “how 
could you add to my miseries by the story of her death ? But 
it matters not ; my pleasure at finding her again is more than a 
recompense for the pain.” 

“As to your question,” replied Jenkinson, “that is easily 
answered. I thought the only probable means of freeing you 
from prison was by submitting to the Squire, and consenting to 
his marriage with the other young lady. But these you had 
vowed never to grant while your daughter was living ; there was 
therefore no other method to bring things to bear but by persuad- 
ing you that she was dead. I prevailed on your wife to join in 
the deceit, and we have not had a fit opportunity of undeceiving 
you till now.” 

In the whole assembly there now appeared only two faces 
that did not glow with transport. Mr. Thornhill’s assurance had 
entirely forsaken him ; he now saw the gulf of infamy and want 
before him, and trembled to take the plunge. He therefore fell 
on his knees before his uncle, and in a voice of piercing misery 
implored compassion. Sir William was going to spurn him 
away, but at my request he raised him, and after pausing a few 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


199 


moments, “Thy vices, crimes, and ingratitude,” cried he, “de- 
serve no tenderness; yet thou shalt not be entirely forsaken; a 
bare competence shall be supplied to support the wants of life, 
but not its follies. This young lady, thy wife, shall be put in pos- 
session of a third part of that fortune which once was thine, and 
from her tenderness alone thou art to expect any extraordinary 
supplies for the future.” He was going to express his gratitude 
for such kindness in a set speech ; but the baronet prevented him, 
by bidding him not to aggravate his meanness, which was already 
but too apparent. He ordered him at the same time to be gone, 
and from all his former domestics to choose one, such as he 
should think proper, which was all that should be granted to 
attend him. 

As soon as he left us Sir William very politely stepped up to 
his new niece with a smile, and wished her joy. His example 
was followed by Miss Wilmot and her father. My wife, too, 
kissed her daughter with much affection. Sophia and Moses 
followed in turn, and even our benefactor Jenkinson desired to 
be admitted to that honor. Our satisfaction seemed scarcely 
capable of increase. Sir William, whose greatest pleasure was in 
doing good, now looked round with a countenance open as the 
sun, and saw nothing but joy in the looks of all, except that of 
my daughter Sophia, who, for some reasons we could not com- 
prehend, did not seem perfectly satisfied. “ I think now,” cried 
he, with a smile, “ that all the company except one or two seem 
perfectly happy. There only remains an act of justice for me to 
do. — You are sensible, sir,” continued he, turning to me, “ of the 
obligation we both owe Mr. Jenkinson, and it is but just that 
we should both reward him for it. Miss Sophia will, I am sure, 
make him very happy, and he shall have from me five hundred 
pounds as her fortune; and upon this I am sure they can live 
very comfortably together. — Come, Miss Sophia, what say you 
to this match of my making ? Will you have him ? ” M.y poor 
girl seemed almost sinking into her mother’s arms at the hideous 
proposal. “ Have him, sir ! ” cried she, faintly ; “no, sir, never.” 


200 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


“What !” cried he again, “not have Mr. Jenkinson, your bene- 
factor, a handsome young fellow, with five hundred pounds and 
good expectations ? ” “I beg, sir,” returned she, scarcely able 
to speak, “that you’ll desist, and not make me so very wretched.” 
“ Was ever such obstinacy known ? ” cried he again, “to refuse 
a man whom the family has such infinite obligations to, who has 
preserved your sister, and who has five hundred pounds ! What, 
not have him!” “No, sir, never,” replied she, angrily; “I’d 
sooner die first.” “ If that be the case, then,” cried he, “ if you 
will not have him — I think I must have you myself ; ” and so 
saying, he caught her to his breast with ardor. “ My loveliest, 
my most sensible of girls,” cried he, “how could you ever think 
your own Burchell could deceive you, or that Sir William Thorn- 
hill could ever cease to admire a lady that loved him for him- 
self alone ? I have for some years sought for a woman who, a 
stranger to my fortune, could think that I had merit as a man. 
After having tried in vain, even among the pert and the ugly, 
how great at last must be my rapture to have made a conquest 
over such sense and such heavenly beauty ! ” 

Then turning to Jenkinson: “As I cannot, sir, part with this 
young lady myself — for she has taken a fancy to the cut of my 
face — all the recompense I can make is to give you her fortune, 
and you may call upon my steward to-morrow for five hundred 
pounds.” Thus we had all our compliments to repeat, and Lady 
Thornhill underwent the same round of ceremony that her sister 
had done before. In the mean time Sir William’s gentleman 
appeared to tell us that the equipages were ready to carry us to 
the inn, where everything was prepared for our reception. My 
wife and I led the van, and left those gloomy mansions of sorrow. 
The generous baronet ordered forty pounds to be distributed 
among the prisoners, and Mr. Wilmot, induced by his example, 
gave half that sum. We were received below by the shouts of 
the villagers, and I saw and shook by the hand two or three of 
my honest parishioners, who were among the number. They 
attended us to our inn, where a sumptuous entertainment was 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


201 


provided, and coarser provisions were distributed in great quan- 
tities among the populace. 

After supper, as my spirits were exhausted by the alternation 
of pleasure and pain which they had sustained during the day, I 
asked permission to withdraw ; and leaving the company in the 
midst of their mirth, as soon as I found myself alone I poured 
out my heart in gratitude to the Giver of joy as well as of sor- 
row, and then slept undisturbed till morning. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

CONCLUSION. 

T he next morning, as soon as I awaked, I found my eldest 
son sitting by my bedside, who came to increase my joy 
with another turn of fortune in my favor. First having released 
me from the settlement that I had made the day before in his 
favor, he let me know that my merchant, who had failed in town, 
was arrested at Antwerp, and there had given up effects to a 
much greater amount than what was due to his creditors. My 
boy’s generosity pleased me almost as much as this unlooked-for 
good fortune ; but I had some doubts whether I ought in justice 
to accept his offer. While I was pondering upon this. Sir Wil- 
liam entered my room, to whom I communicated my doubts. 
His opinion was that as my son was already possessed of a very 
affluent fortune by his marriage, I might accept his offer without 
any hesitation. His business, however, was to inform me that 
he had the night before sent for the licenses, and expected them 
every hour, and he hoped I would not refuse my assistance in 
making all the company happy that morning. A footman entered 
while we were speaking, to tell us that the messenger was re- 
turned; and as I was by this time ready, I went down, where I 
found the whole company as merry as affluence and innocence 


202 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 


could make them. However, as they were now preparing for a 
very solemn ceremony, their laughter entirely displeased me. I 
told them of the grave, becoming, and sublime deportment they 
should assume upon this mystical occasion, and read them two 
homilies and a thesis ^ of my own composing, in order to pre- 
pare them. Yet they still seemed perfectly refractory and ungov- 
ernable. Even as we were going along to church, to which I 
led the way, all gravity had quite forsaken them, and I was often 
tempted to turn back in indignation. In church a new dilemma 
arose, which promised no easy solution. This was, which couple 
should be married first. My son’s bride warmly insisted that 
Lady Thornhill (that was to be) should take the lead; but this 
the other refused with equal ardor, protesting she would not be 
guilty of such rudeness for the world. The argument was sup- 
ported for some time between both with equal obstinacy and 
good breeding. But as I stood all this time with my book 
ready, I was at last quite tired of the contest; and shutting it, 
“ I perceive,” cried I, “ that none of you have a mind to be mar- 
ried, and I think we had as good go back again ; for I suppose 
there will be no business done here to-day.” This at once re- 
duced them to reason. The baronet and his lady were first 
married, and then my son and his lovely partner. 

I had previously that morning given orders that a coach should 
be sent for my honest neighbor Flamborough and his family ; by 
which means, upon our return to the inn, we had the pleasure of 
finding the two Miss Flamboroughs alighted before us. Mr. Jen- 
kinson gave his hand to the eldest, and my son Moses led up the 
other (and I have since found that he has taken a real liking to 
the girl, and my consent and bounty he shall have, whenever he 
thinks proper to demand them). We were no sooner returned to 
the inn, but numbers of my parishioners, hearing of my success, 
came to congratulate me ; but among the rest were those who 
rose to rescue me, and whom I formerly rebuked with such 

^ A homily would interpret and apply a passage of Scripture, while a thesis 
would set forth and offer arguments for some particular doctrine. 


THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 


203 


sharpness. I told the story to Sir William, my son-in-law, who 
went out and reproved them with great severity; but finding 
them quite disheartened by his harsh reproof, he gave them half 
a guinea apiece to drink his health and raise their dejected 
spirits. 

Soon after this we were called to a very genteel entertainment, 
which was dressed by Mr. Thornhill’s cook. And it may not be 
improper to observe, with respect to that gentleman, that he now 
resides, in quality of companion, at a relation’s house, being very 
well liked, and seldom sitting at the side table, except when there 
is no room at the other ; for they make no stranger of him. His 
time is pretty much taken up in keeping his relation, who is a 
little melancholy, in spirits, and in learning to blow the French 
horn. My eldest daughter, however, still remembers him with 
regret ; and she has even told me, though I make a great secret 
of it, that when he reforms she may be brought to relent. But 
to return, for I am not apt to digress thus. When we were to sit 
down to dinner, our ceremonies were going to be renewed. The 
question was, whether my eldest daughter, as being a matron, 
should not sit above the two young brides ; but the debate was 
cut short by my son George, who proposed that the company 
should sit indiscriminately, every gentleman by his lady. This 
was received with great approbation by all excepting my wife, 
who, I could perceive, was not perfectly satisfied, as she expected 
to have had the pleasure of sitting at the head of the table, and 
carving all the meat for all the company. But, notwithstanding 
this, it is impossible to describe our good humor. I can’t say 
whether we had more wit among us now than usual; but I am 
certain we had more laughing, which answered the end as well. 
One jest I particularly remember. Old Mr. Wilmot drinking to 
Moses, whose head was turned another way, my son replied. 
Madam, I thank you;” upon which the old gentleman, wink- 
ing upon the rest of the company, observed that he was thinking 
of his sweetheart, at which jest I thought the two Miss Flam- 
boroughs would have died with laughing. As soon as dinner 


204 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


was over, according to my old custom, I requested that the 
table might be taken away, to have the pleasure of seeing all 
my family assembled once more by a cheerful fireside. My two 
little ones sat upon each knee, the rest of the company by their 
partners. I had nothing now on this side of the grave to wish 
for ; all my cares were over ; my pleasure was unspeakable. It 
now only remained that my gratitude in good fortune should 
exceed my former submission in adversity. 


THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 


205 


THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Sweet Auburn P loveliest village of the plain, 

Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain, ^ 

Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid. 

And parting summer’s lingering blooms delayed : 

Dear lovely bowers® of innocence and ease. 

Seats ^ of my youth, when every sport could please, 

How often have I loitered o’er thy green. 

Where humble happiness endeared each scene ! 

How often have I paused on every charm, 

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm. 

The never- failing brook, the busy mill. 

The decent^ church that topped the neighboring hill. 

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade. 

For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 

How often have I blessed the coming day. 

When toil remitting lent its turn to play. 

And all the village train,® from labor free. 

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ; 

While many a pastime circled in the shade. 

The young contending as the old surveyed. 

And many a gambol frolicked o’er the ground. 

And sleights of art and feats of strength went round ! 

And still, as each repeated pleasure tired. 

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired : 

The dancing pair that simply sought renown 
By holding out to tire each other down ; 

The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,^ 

While secret laughter tittered round the place ; 

The bashful virgin’s sidelong looks of love. 

For the identity of the village, see the Introduction, p. 22. 

A man who lives in the country. 

Cottages, or abodes. ^ Dwelling places. ® Neat. 

Company of people. An allusion, probably, to some practical joke. 


206 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 


The matron’s glance that would those looks reprove. 

These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these, 

With sweet succession, taught e’en toil to please j 
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed ; 

These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled. 

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,^ 

Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; 

Amidst thy bowers the tyrant’s ^ hand is seen. 

And desolation saddens all thy green : 

One only master grasps the whole domain. 

And half a tillage ® stints thy smiling plain. 

No more thy glassy brook reflects the day. 

But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way ; 

Along thy glades, a solitary guest. 

The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 

Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies. 

And tires their echoes with unvaried cries j 
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all. 

And the long grass* o’ertops the moldering wall ; 

And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler’s hand. 

Far, far away thy children leave the land. 

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey. 

Where wealth accumulates, and men decay 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; 

A breath® can make them, as a breath has made : 

But a bold peasantry, their country’s pride. 

When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 

A time there was, ere England’s griefs ® began, 

1 Here used in the sense of “ plain.” See the opening line. 

2 Some landowner who has removed the people to make room for his 
estate. Also called “ the spoiler ” a few lines below. 

3 The crops are only half as large as formerly. ^ Become few. 

® Referring to the power of monarchs to confer titles of nobility. 

“ Princes and lords are but the breath of kings. ” — Burns. 

® This phrase seems to support the view that “ Auburn ” was an English 
village. However, Goldsmith was dealing with conditions which he supposed 
to be common to England and Ireland. See the Introduction, p. 22 . 


THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 


207 


When every rood of ground maintained its man : 

For him light labor spread her wholesome store, 

Just gave what life required, but gave no more ; 

His best companions, innocence and health ; 

And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 

But times are altered ; trade’s unfeeling train 
Usurp the land and dispossess the swain : 

Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, 

Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose, 

And every want to opulence allied. 

And every pang that folly pays to pride. 

Those gentle hours that plenty bade ^ to bloom, 

Those calm desires that asked but little room. 

Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene. 

Lived in each look, and brightened all the green — 

These, far departing, seek a kinder shore. 

And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour. 

Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant’s power. 

Here, as I take my solitary rounds 

Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds. 

And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew. 
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,^ 

Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 

In all my wanderings ® round this world of care. 

In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 

I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown. 

Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 

To husband out life’s taper at the close. 

And keep the flame from wasting by repose : 

I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, 

1 What is the subject of “ bade ” ? 

2 Of memories. Compare the phrase, “ train of thought.” 

3 Doubtless an allusion to the poet’s own experience. See the Introduc- 
tion, p. 9, last two paragraphs. 


2o8 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, 

Around my fire an evening group to draw, 

And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; 

And as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue 
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 

I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 

Here to return — and die at home at last.^ 

O blest retirement, friend to life’s decline. 

Retreats from care, that never must be mine. 

How happy he who crowns in shades like these 
A youth of labor with an age of ease ; 

Who quits a world where strong temptations try. 

And, since ’tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 

For him no wretches, born to work and weep. 

Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep ; 

Nor surly porter stands in guilty state. 

To spurn imploring famine^ from the gate.; 

But on he moves to meet his latter end, 

Angels around befriending virtue’s friend ; 

Bends to the grave with unperceived decay. 

While resignation gently slopes the way ; 

And, all his prospects brightening to the last. 

His heaven commences ere the world be past ! 

Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening’s ® close 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. 

There, as I passed with careless steps and slow. 

The mingling notes came softened from below ; 

The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung. 

The sober herd that lowed to meet their young. 

The noisy geese that gabbled o’er the pool, 

^ This passage indicates that Goldsmith was thinking of “ Auburn ” as his 
boyhood home in Ireland. 

2 The hungry beggar. By metonymy, the poet names the abstract for the 
concrete. 

* Goldsmith here uses “ evening ” in the sense of “ afternoon,” a fiense in 
which it is used in our Southern states. 


THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 


209 


The playful children just let loose from school, 

The watchdog’s voice that bayed the whispering wind, 

And the* loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ; ^ — 

These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 

And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 

But now the sounds of population fail. 

No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,^ 

No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, 

For all the bloomy flush of life is fled. 

All but yon widowed, solitary thing. 

That feebly bends beside the plashy spring : 

She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, ^ 

To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread. 

To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn. 

To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn ; 

She only left of all the harmless train. 

The sad historian of the pensive plain. 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled. 

And still where many a garden flower grows wild. 

There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose. 

The village preacher’s ^ modest mansion ^ rose. 

A man he was to all the country dear. 

And passing ® rich with forty pounds a year ; 

Remote from towns he ran his godly race. 

Nor e’er had changed, nor wished to change his place ; ^ 
Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power. 

By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; 

1 Indicated a mind not necessarily lacking in intelligence, but free from care, 
unemployed. 

2 A breeze, not a strong wind. 

® A general term for food. 

^ In the description of the village preacher, the poet is supposed to have 
had in mind his father, or his brother Henry, or both. 

® Dwelling. The word as used by Goldsmith does not include its modern 
suggestion of large size or magnificence. 

® Adverb, equivalent to “ surpassingly.” 

Rank, or position, rather than location. 


210 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 


Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, 

More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. 

His house was known to all the vagrant train ; 

He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain : 

The long-remembered beggar was his guest. 

Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; 

The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud. 

Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ; 

The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay. 

Sat by his fire, and talked the night away ; 

Wept o’er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done. 

Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow. 

And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 

Careless their merits or their faults to scan. 

His pity gave ere charity began.^ 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride. 

And e’en his failings leaned to virtue’s side ;^ 

But in his duty prompt at every call. 

He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all ; 

And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies. 

He tried each art, reproved each dull delay. 

Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid. 

And sorrow, guilt, and paia by turns dismayed. 

The reverend champion® stood. At his control 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 

Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 

And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 

^ His giving sprang from heartfelt sympathy rather than from a sense of 
duty. 

2 He was perhaps more generous toward the unfortunate than was 
wise. 

® The preacher is called a “ champion ” because he fights spiritually for the 
dying man against sorrow, guilt, despair, and anguish. 


THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 


2II 


At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 

His looks adorned the venerable place ; 

Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, 

And fools who came to scoff, remained to pray. 

The service past, around the pious man, 

With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 

E’en children followed with endearing wile. 

And plucked his gown to share the good man’s smile. 
His ready smile a parent’s warmth expressed ; 

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed. 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given. 

But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven : 

As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form. 

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm ; 
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread. 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way. 
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, 

There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule. 

The village master^ taught his little school. 

A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 

I knew him well, and every truant knew : 

Well had the boding ^ tremblers learned to trace 
The day’s disasters in his morning face ; 

Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee 
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 

Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 

Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned. 

Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught. 

The love he bore to learning was in fault. 

The village all declared how much he knew : 

’Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ; 


1 The passage describing the village schoolmaster is thought to be a picture 
of Goldsmith’s teacher in Lissoy, — Thomas, or “ Paddy,” Byrne. 

2 Foreboding, or fearing beforehand. 


212 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,^ 

And e’en the story ran that he could gauge : ^ 

In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, 

For, e’en though vanquished, he could argue still ; 

While words of learned length and thundering sound 
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew. 

That one small head could carry all he knew. 

But past is all his fame. The very spot 
Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot. 

Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high. 

Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye. 

Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired. 
Where gray-beard mirth ® and smiling toil ^ retired. 

Where village statesmen talked with looks profound. 

And news much older than their ale went round. 

Imagination fondly stoops to trace 

The parlor ^ splendors of that festive place : 

The whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor. 

The varnished clock that clicked behind the door ; 

The chest contrived a double debt to pay, 

A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 

The pictures placed for ornament and use,^ 

The twelve good rules,® the royal game of goose ; ^ 

1 A somewhat obscure phrase. “Terms” may mean the periods during 
which colleges or courts of law are in session; the word is also applied in 
England and Ireland to the four days in each year, called quarter-days, when 
rents are settled. “Tides” may mean either the periods of high and low 
water, or “ times and seasons,” especially seasons or days in the church year. 

2 To find out the capacity of vessels containing liquids. 

® Mirthful old men. Smiling laborers. See note 2, p. 208. 

^ Here used with the force of an adjective. 

® The “ use ” was, perhaps, to conceal defects in the walls. 

® Twelve maxims, or rules of conduct, at that time frequently hung up in 
public houses. According to Goldsmith they were drawn up by Charles I. 

“ A game played with counters on a board divided into compartments, 
in some of which a goose was depicted.” 


THE DESERTED VILLAGE, 


213 


The hearth, except when winter chilled the day, 

With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay ; 

While broken teacups, wisely kept for show. 

Ranged o’er the chimney, glistened in a row. 

Vain transitory splendors ! could not all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? 

Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
An hour’s importance to the poor man’s heart. 

Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 

No more the farmer’s news, the barber’s tale, 

No more the woodman’s ballad shall prevail ; 

No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear. 

Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear ; 

The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss ^ go round ; 

Nor the coy maid, half willing to be pressed, 

Shall kiss the cup ^ to pass it to the rest. 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 

These sirrjple blessings of the lowly train ; 

To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 

One native charm, than all the gloss of art ; 

Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play. 

The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway j 
Lightly they frolic o’er the vacant mind,® 

Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined. 

But the long pomp,*^ the midnight masquerade. 

With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed — 

In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain. 

The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 

And, e’en while fashion’s brightest arts decoy. 

The heart distrusting asks if this be joy. 

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 

1 Foaming ale. “ Bliss ” is here named instead of the drink which pro- 
duces it. Another example of metonymy — the effect named for the cause, 

2 A mediaeval custom. ^ See note i, p. 209. * Procession. 


214 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


The rich man’s joys increase, the poor’s decay, 

’Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand ^ 

Between a splendid and a happy land. 

Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore,^ 

And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; 

Hoards e’en beyond the miser’s wish abound, 

And rich men flock from all the world around. 

Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name 
That leaves our useful products still the same. 

Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 
Takes up a space that many poor supplied — 

Space for his lake, his park’s extended bounds. 

Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds : 

The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth 

Has robbed the neighboring fields of half their growth ; ^ 

His seat, where solitary sports ^ are seen. 

Indignant spurns the cottage from the green : * 

Around the world each needful product flies. 

For all the luxuries the world supplies f 
While thus the land, adorned for pleasure, all 
In barren splendor feebly waits the fall. 

As some fair female, unadorned and plain, ® 

Secure to please while youth confirms her reign. 

Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies. 

Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes; 

1 How wide the separation is. Wide = far apart. 

2 Gold and silver loaded (freighted) on ships. 

^ Either the silk ‘robe has cost half as much as the produce of the neigh- 
boring fields is worth; or, on account of the luxury of the rich man, sug- 
gested by the silk robe, the fields are not cultivated so intensively as when 
they were tilled by numerous holders of small farms. See note 3, p. 206. 

^ The “ solitary sports ” of the rich man are in contrast with the social 
sports of the country people, described on p. 205. 

® The needful products of the home country are sent abroad to pay for 
luxuries. 

® Artless, or natural. The following lines show that “ plain ” cannot her? 
mean “ lacking in beauty.” 


THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 


215 


But when those charms are past, for charms are frail, 

When time advances, and when lovers fail, 

She then shines forth, solicitous to bless,^ 

In all the glaring impotence of dress ; 

Thus fares the land by luxury betrayed : 

In nature’s simplest charms at first arrayed. 

But verging to decline, its splendors rise. 

Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 

While, scourged by famine from the smiling land. 

The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; ^ 

And while he sinks, without one arm to save. 

The country blooms — a garden and a grave. 

Where then, ah ! where, shall poverty reside. 

To scape the pressure of contiguous pride? 

If to some common’s fenceless limits strayed 
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade. 

Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide. 

And even the bare-worn common is denied. 

If to the city sped — what waits him there ? 

To see profusion that he must not share ; 

To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; 

To see those joys the sons of pleasure know. 

Extorted from his fellow-creature’s woe. 

Here while the courtier glitters in brocade. 

There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; ^ 

Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, 

There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 

The dome ^ where pleasure holds her midnight reign 
Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train : 

Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,® 

1 To please some lover. ^ Family. 

® The pale artisan, or workman, is busy at his unhealthful occupation. The 
poet did not distinguish, as we do, between “ artist ” and “ artisan.” 

* Here used to mean a building, not a cupola. 

® Blazing with torches, which were carried to supply light in the street. 


2i6 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


The rattling chariots ^ clash, the torches glare. 

Sure scenes like these no troubles e’er annoy ! 

Sure these denote one universal joy ! 

Are these thy serious thoughts ? — Ah ! turn thine eyes 
Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. 

She once, perhaps, in village plenty blessed. 

Has wept at tales of innocence distressed ; 

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn. 

Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn : 

Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled. 

Near her betrayer’s door she lays her head. 

And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the shower, 
With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour. 

When idly ^ first, ambitious of the town. 

She left her wheel ® and robes of country brown. 

Do thine, sweet Auburn, — thine, the loveliest train, — 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? 

Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led. 

At proud men’s doors they ask a little bread ! 

Ah, no ! To distant climes, a dreary scene. 

Where halDthe convex world intrudes between, 

Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go. 

Where wild Altama ^ murmurs to their woe. 

Far different there from all that charmed before 
The various terrors of that horrid shore : 

Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 

And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 

Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, 

But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 

Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned. 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 

Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
The rattling ferrors of the vengeful snake ; 


1 Carriages. 

8 Spinning wheel. 


^ Foolishly, a meaning now obsolete. 
* The Altamaha River, in Georgia. 


THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 


217 


Where crouching tigers ^ wait their hapless prey, 

And savage men more murderous still than they ; 

While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, 

Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. 

Far different these from every former scene. 

The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green. 

The breezy covert of the warbling grove. 

That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. 

Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloomed that parting day. 
That called them from their native walks away ; 

When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 

Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last. 

And took a long farewell, and wished in vain 
For seats like these beyond the western main ; 

And shuddering still to face the distant deep. 

Returned and wept, and still returned to weep. 

The good old sire the first prepared to go 
To new-found worlds, and wept for others’ woe; 

But for himself, in conscious virtue brave. 

He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. 

His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears. 

The fond companion of his helpless years, 

Silent went next, neglectful of her charms. 

And left a lover’s for a father’s arms. 

With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes. 

And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose, 

And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear. 

And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear ; 

Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
In all the silent manliness of grief. 

O luxury ! thou curst by Heaven’s decree. 

How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! 

How do thy potions, with insidious joy, 

Difluse their pleasures only to destroy ! 

1 An inaccuracy, since the tiger is not found in America. Perhaps the 
poet meant the puma or the jaguar. 


2i8 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 


Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 

Boast of a florid ^ vigor not their own : 

At every draught more large and large they grow, 

A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; ^ 

Till, sapped their strength, and every part unsound, 

Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. 

E’en now the devastation is begun. 

And half the business of destruction done ; 

E’en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, 

I see the rural virtues leave the land. 

Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, 

That idly waiting flaps with every gale. 

Downward they ^ move, a melancholy band. 

Pass from the shore,^ and darken all the strand.*^ 

Contented toil, and hospitable care. 

And kind connubial tenderness, are there; 

And piety with wishes placed above,® 

And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 

And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid. 

Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; 

Unfit in these degenerate times of shame 
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ; 

Dear charming nymph,® neglected and decried. 

My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ; 

Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe. 

Thou found’st me poor at first, and keep’st me so ; 

1 “Florid” may mean either blooming with flowers, or blooming with 
health, hence ruddy. 

2 The kingdoms are represented as taking luxury’s potions, or drinks, at every 
draught of which they grow greater outwardly, but inwardly become diseased. 

® The “ rural virtues,” personified, which are named in the following lines. 
* Note the distinction between “ shore ” and “ strand.” The “ strand ” here 
must mean the strip of beach between the ocean and the main “ shore.” 

® With desires turned toward heaven. 

® A goddess, here apparently equivalent to “ muse.” 

^ Goldsmith’s poverty was due to his improvident habits, not to his being a 
poet. 


THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 


219 


Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, 

Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well ! 

Farewell ! and O where’er thy voice be tried. 

On Torno’s^ cliffs, or Pambamarca’s^ side. 

Whether where equinoctial fervors glow. 

Or winter wraps the polar world in snow. 

Still let thy voice, prevailing oyer time. 

Redress the rigors of the inclement clime ; ^ 

Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; 

Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 

Teach him, that states of native strength possessed,® 

Though very poor, may still be very blest ; 

' That trade’s proud empire hastes to swift decay, 

As ocean sweeps the labored mole away ; 

While self-dependent power can time defy. 

As rocks resist the billows and the sky.'* 

1 There is a Tornea (or Torneo) river between Sweden and Russia; also a 
Lake Tornea in northern Sweden. Pambamarca is one of the Andes moun- 
tains, near the equator. Thus “ Pambamarca’s side ” suggests the “ equinoc- 
tial fervors ” of the following line, while “ Torno’s cliffs ” are where “ winter 
wraps the polar world in snow.” 

2 Make up for the severity of the climate. 

® States, or countries, possessed of their native strength; depending on 
their own resources, not on foreign trade. 

* The last four lines were written by Dr. Samuel Johnson. 


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simple, and logical in its treatment, original in its depar- 
ture from technical rules and traditions, copiously illus- 
trated with examples, and calculated in every way to 
awaken interest and enthusiasm in the study. A large 
part of the book is devoted to instruction and practice in 
actual composition work in which the pupil is encouraged 
to follow and apply genuine laboratory methods. 

The lessons are so arranged that the whole course, 
including the outside constructive work, may be satisfac- 
torily completed in a single school year. 


Copies of Quackenbos' s Practical Rhetoric will be sent prepaid to 
any address, on receipt of the price, by the Publishers. Correspondence 
relating to terms for introduction is cordially invited. 

American Book Company 

New York ♦ Cincinnati ♦ Chicago 

(M) 


Lancaster’s Manual of English History 

/REVISED EDITION- 

By EDWARD M. LANCASTER 
Principal of the Gilbert Stuart School, Boston 

Cloth, 12mo, 334 pages, with maps $1.00 


This work has been prepared to meet the wants of 
those schools whose limited time fortfids an extended 
course of study. The essential facts of English, history 
have been given as briefly and clearly as possible, and the 
relation which one event bears to another, that is, the 
cause and effect, has been carefully traced. 

In this new edition the book has been revised and 
enlarged. The narrative has been brought down to the 
present date, and the position of Great Britain given on 
such important recent subjects as the Sudan, the Far- 
Eastern Question, the Venezuelan Question, the Spanish- 
American War, and the War with the Boers. The 
colored maps show not only England in the various stages 
of her conquests, but the provinces of France and parts 
of the adjacent countries. The Appendix contains a 
brief statement describing the three departments of the 
British Government, and also a list of the cardinal dates 
of English history. The book, furthermore, includes a 
list of the kings of England, with the leading topics 
during each reign, a genealogical table, and a catalogue 
of British territorial possessions at the present time. 


Copies sent, prepaid, to any address on receipt of the price^ 


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